


Those Certain Detestable Acts

by sandraven



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018), Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: (Betty Cooper: Queen of Compartmentalization), (Grundy The Sexual Abuser), (That Can Happen In One Fic), Altered Mental States, Alternate Season/Series 01, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Betty Cooper Needs a Hug, Canon Crossover, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Horror Elements, M/M, Major Plot Divergence, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mention of Cannibalism, Mutual Pining, Paganism, Satanism, Semi-Unreliable Narrator, Sexual Abuse, Slow Burn, Some Barchie in the first few chapters, Some epistolary content, The Real Horror Story Is Our Fucked Up Family Dynamics: Riverdale Edition, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Witch Hunters, witch betty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:54:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 32
Words: 182,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24131665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandraven/pseuds/sandraven
Summary: Riverdale came from Greendale. That's something everyone learns in seventh grade civics. After the Trials in 1692, the Order of Innocents—the Brotherhood of Hunters—settled across the Sweetwater to keep watch on the town of Greendale. There they stayed, centuries before Riverdale was ever founded, to wait for the witches to re-emerge. It's an old legend, now. A story.All stories come from something real.And Betty Cooper's almost sixteen.--Interlude: Joaquin.Joaquin must act as Witness to an intriguing visitor.--7th Bughead Fanfiction Awards -- WINNER -- MULTI OVERALL WIP / MULTI FANTASY/SCI-FI7th Bughead Fanfiction Awards -- NOMINEE -- NEWBIE AUTHOR / CREATIVE AUTHOR
Relationships: Ambrose Spellman & Hilda Spellman & Sabrina Spellman & Zelda Spellman, Archie Andrews & Betty Cooper, Archie Andrews & Betty Cooper & Jughead Jones & Veronica Lodge, Betty Cooper & Jughead Jones, Betty Cooper & Sabrina Spellman, Betty Cooper & Veronica Lodge, Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 630
Kudos: 245





	1. Something Wicked This Way Comes

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is going to go a lot into Betty's mental illness. Please watch out for yourselves, loves, re: depression, loss of time, disassociation, and mental instability.
> 
> My Twitter is @ssssandraven, my Tumblr is ssssandraven.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Betty sees something she doesn't understand. Veronica moves in. Archie makes a choice. Kevin's unsure what the hell is going on.
> 
> [Overlaps with Chapter One: The River's Edge.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blood and gore re: the usual CAOS fare. 
> 
> Also this first chapter references some medical trauma/PTSD re: gynecology. Careful if that might trigger you.

_It’s always been this way._

.

.

.

_The perfect girl next door._

.

.

.

_The lone wolf from the wrong side of the tracks._

.

.

.

_The artistic jock who wanted it all._

.

.

.

_The rich girl who tried to buy herself family._

.

.

.

_The queen bee clawing for her throne._

.

.

.

_This is Riverdale._

.

.

.

_This is our home._

.

.

.

_Our slice of goodness and safety._

.

.

.

_It’s always been this way._

.

.

.

_But_

_has_

_it?_

.

.

.

.

.

.

**THOSE**

**CERTAIN**

**DETESTABLE**

**ACTS**

.

.

.

.

.

.

**I.**

_**Something Wicked This Way Comes** _

The trees are singing, and Betty Cooper is drowning.

She is standing in a glade. She cannot see. There is blood in her eyes, in her hair. She can taste it, tacky on her lips. Heavy, like iron smells. Like when she bites the inside of her lip to keep from screaming, but more. It rises up from inside her, eating, chewing, gnawing. There is nothing but the blood, and the trees.

_Vod omnes ministri—_

The trees sing. She opens her fists, and sees she’s sliced her hand down to bone. A knife tumbles from the other. It is copper, and the handle is streaked red. Blood and bone and moss between her bare toes.

_—et destructions et seratore discorde—_

It drips in her eyes. It runs down her scalp, down her throat. Inside her there is a flower, and it is blooming broad, cutting into the walls of her stomach, into her throat as the vines clamber her esophagus. Seeking sunlight. Flowers seeking sunlight. But it’s not a flower, it’s a creature, and it’s writhing on its own; a snake, she can feel the scales inside, wriggling up, its tongue ghosting the back of her throat—

 _—conjurae idec nos conjuo et odit_ —

Someone shouts her name. _Betty_ , at a distance, desperate. _Betty, answer me—_

“You did this to yourself, Elizabeth,” someone says.

Fire licks at her feet, up her legs. She is burning. She opens her mouth to free the viper—

“—tomorrow,” Kevin says, and Betty comes back to herself.

She can’t think where she was. She thinks she must have been daydreaming, but for the life of her she can’t remember what she’d been thinking about. There’s lipstick in her hand, and half on her mouth, like she’s been testing out new colors. She’s in her bra. The curtains are open on her window, and the room smells of—of nail polish and acetone, the kind of smell that usually comes along with Kevin’s insistence on mani-pedis and her mother’s casual allowance of it. Kevin Keller, the only safe boy in Riverdale, the only one allowed into the boudoir of the last sane Cooper girl, simply because he’s gay.

She looks at the lipstick in her hand, and back at the mirror, and sees blood smeared across her mouth.

“Betty,” says Kevin, behind her. “Earth to Elizabeth.”

“What?” says Betty, and in that moment, the image vanishes. She is just Betty, with her hair pulled into a tight ponytail, sitting in one of her new bras on the cushy stool in front of her light-up mirror. There is no blood in her reflection. When she puts her hand to her mouth, her fingers come away clean. Only lip gloss, nothing more. “What, Kevin?”

“You look like you just saw a ghost.”

Betty looks back at the mirror. Her bra looks nice. She carefully puts the gloss back on the dressing table, and flexes her fingers. She breathes, just for a split second—in, out—and curls her hand into a fist on her leg. Her knees are liquid, her feet numb, but her hands—her hands, at least, are rock solid.

“I’m fine, Kev!” She smiles, and in the mirror it looks sunny and bright and perfect, the way it’s supposed to look. “Sorry, I kinda—I kinda spaced out there, for a second. Long day—”

“I know, you just flew back from your internship, obviously you’re wiped.” Kevin burbles. That’s the nice thing about Kevin. He burbles, and he’s more than willing to ignore her slip-ups when she acts weird, or tired, or angry. This is why Kevin, she thinks, is the perfect best friend. He doesn’t ask her anything deep, he lets her get away with odd spells like this, and he’s sweet. Really, genuinely sweet. Peach pie sweet, the way Alice Cooper wants. “But seriously, Betty, this is your year. This _has_ to be your year. The meek shall inherit the earth, and everything.”

“Have you been reading the _Bible_ , Kevin?”

“My dad’s been going back to church.” Kevin grimaces. “Says it’s to like—connect with the community again. The Sheriff is an elected position, so, like—he has to keep the votes.”

“Yeah,” Betty says, and looks around to her mirror again. It _is_ a nice bra, she thinks. She’d bought it out with Polly. “No, makes sense. You just didn’t seem like the church type.”

“People can be gay and religious, Betty.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Ugh, sorry, yes, I know. Sorry. My hackles are up.” He props his elbows up on his mattress, and Betty thins she ought to tell him that he’s rumpling the comforter. Then she remembers her mom won’t care, because to her mother, there are gay boys and straight boys. Bisexuality doesn’t seem to exist for her. Not that Kevin is bi, but the thing is, he _could_ be and her mom just _assumes_ he’s gay, and it’s a double-standard that just because Kevin acts not-aggressively masculine that _he_ gets a free pass as her friend and is allowed in her room when people like Archie and Jughead can’t just because they don’t like manicures or fashion magazines. She shakes the thought out of her head. “Anyway, I’m pretty sure once people stop thinking about Jason, my dad will give up on this whole church-going sheriff strategy and go back to what he was doing before. He’s only doing it to remind people that the sheriff’s office is, y’know, _there_. And technically still available if people need help. Not that it’s been particularly helpful.”

“Oo,” says Betty, the way she’s clearly supposed to. “So no trips to the woods then, huh?”

“No,” says Kevin, rolling his eyes. “Though that’s _not_ why I’m pointing it out, Betty.”

“I know, Kev.”

“Anyway, we were _talking_ about Archie.” He gives her a _look_ , and then adds, “And how it’s _time_. Time for you to take that ginger bull by the horns and ride him to kingdom come, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh my god,” says Betty. “ _Kevin_. Stop.”

“Look, I know there’s no shame in being a virgin, that’s so 1990, but like—”

“But nothing, Kevin.” She looks at herself in the mirror again, and presses her lips together. “There’s no shame in being a virgin, end it there before you sound like you’re wandering around red pill forums on Eddit.”

Kevin closes his mouth abruptly. Then he says, “Ouch, Betty.”

 _Never too harsh,_ she thinks. _Always sweet. Always apologize first, even if you’re not the one at fault. It makes things easier._

“Sorry.” Betty turns on her stool to face him. “But—you’re right. This is going to be my year. This is—this is going to be the year for it.”

Kevin laughs. “For what?”

Betty loosens her fists. She can feel blood congealing under her nails. She says, “For everything, Kevin.”

.

.

.

She doesn’t tell her mom about the hallucination.

She’s been having more of them, lately, but they’re not—exactly uncommon for her. They’d started along with her period, twelve years old and two weeks before summer vacation. For two years after that, her mom and dad had insisted she go to specialists for them. The hallucinations, not her periods. Always telling the neighbors they were trying out new gymnastics gyms, new physical therapists for ballet, but driving all over the state, from Greendale to Augusta, Portland to Eastport. She’s taken eight different kinds of drugs in twelve different combinations, gone on and off Adderall, even visited an OB/GYN that took much too much time shoving a camera up her vagina to see if there was some kind of infection in her uterus that resulted in her having waking nightmares. (Like _that_ made any sense, but one of the increasingly seedy-looking doctors Alice had taken her to had suggested it, and now she can’t go in for a pap smear without having a panic attack. Small potatoes.)

But despite all the drugs, and all the therapists, and all the confusion, and all the fear, the hallucinations never really stopped. They simply happen. She has no control over when they happen or where. She rarely even has warnings, and rarely even remembers them. There is only the sense of lost time, and sometimes faded, lingering images, like the aftershock from a camera flash. It is, she thinks, probably for the best. She never screams, during her episodes, or cries. She barely even gives any indication something is wrong. According to Polly, she simply looks blank, and breathes more sharply, for no more than a minute. And she, Betty, would be fine again, and catch up as if nothing had happened.

If Alice knows she’s having them again, after eight whole months with none, she won’t be allowed out of the house. But everything with Polly and Jason seems to have brought them back, and the closer it gets to school, the more frequent they are. Never so bad as they’d been that first year, but—getting worse.

 _As soon as Polly comes home,_ she thinks. _They’ll go away again. As soon as Polly gets better._

And until then, she can hide them. She’s always been good at hiding things that don’t fit.

.

.

.

She’s talked to Archie at least once a week every week all summer. On VidChat, usually. It’s something she’s insisted on, though some weeks working at Andrews Construction had him so exhausted he’d been falling asleep on his desk, and other weeks her internship in LA had her worked so hard she could barely find time to make the call. Still, it’s—nice, to be talking so much with Archie, just the two of them. At school it’s usually her, and Archie, and Jughead sometimes, and Kevin, all together. Polly, too, before she’d started dating Jason. She hasn’t spent this much time with just Archie since they were little kids both sick with chickenpox at the same time, with Mrs. Andrews giving them oatmeal baths in the same tub.

But they’re not six anymore, she thinks. _She’s_ definitely not six anymore, and neither is Archie, and she’s sure—really, truly sure—this is the time to ask him if they’d—well. If he thinks they’d be a good fit. For something more than friends.

Her palms sweat at the thought.

She’s always known Archie. In her bones she knows she will _always_ know Archie. It’s like something inexorable. They’re meant to be a part of each other’s lives, forever. The way she knows she actually hates _Catcher in the Rye_ despite writing an extra credit report on it last year, or that her mother will never understand her, or the way she knew when her grandmother would die before they even got the news she was ill. She and Archie are forever. The big thing right now is to convince him to maybe give that forever a chance.

It's on her lips, the question, when she hears it. The bell over Pop’s entryway jingles, and it’s as if—Betty’s not sure. As if some icicle’s been drawn up her spine, but not in fear. As if a thunderstorm is building outside, ready to break. Archie’s attention has skittered, and if she’s honest, so has hers—the pressure inside her leaps and bounds up her throat, and she has to shut her eyes and clench her hands into tight fists beneath the table to keep it from erupting. Her ears echo with rushing water—

_—Veronica twines the red silk through her hands and between her fingers it turns to blood, spilling down onto the table in a champagne flute tower that has the room cheering, and there’s a man behind her that smiles—_

A cool hand touches her shoulder, and the pressure eases. More than that; it drops, like a stone in deep water, far, far below the surface. The ricochet has her shaking.

“Hi,” says the girl. She has eyes like ink, and pearls around her neck. Like a dark Red Riding Hood, Betty thinks. Like she could face the wolf, and win without mussing her pretty lipstick. Something, some image, darts around the edges of her mind, but try as she might, she can’t catch it. Static seems to crawl out of the strange girl’s fingers into Betty’s arm, like she’s a livewire. “Are you okay? You look like the ghost of Catherine Earnshaw just begged to be let in your window.”

Her throat is full of ice. Betty swallows. “Sorry. I’m fine. Just—I think I had a brain freeze. From the milkshake.”

This is a weak excuse. Archie would notice, if he were paying attention. He’s not. The girl gives her another long, searching look.

“Brain freezes are the worst,” says the girl. She hasn’t taken her hand off Betty’s shoulder. “I’m Veronica. Veronica Lodge. My mom and I just moved here.”

“Archie,” says Archie. “Andrews. And that’s Betty, Betty Cooper.”

“You’re the one walking me around school tomorrow,” says Veronica, and Betty forces another smile up onto her face. She’s not sure _what’s_ happening anymore. Her tongue doesn’t seem to want to move. “I’m glad I caught you outside of Riverdale’s hallowed halls. Nice to see people outside of school first, you know?”

“Totally,” says Archie, in the too-quick-to-please voice he uses when he sees a pretty girl, and tomorrow it’s going to be _oh Betty she’s so gorgeous do you think she’d want to go on a date with me,_ and cold needles prick into her heart. Veronica smiles at Archie, a pure coquette smile, and then looks down to Betty again.

“You,” she says, with the air of a princess dispensing a favor, “can call me V, Betty. I have a feeling that we’re going to be best friends.”

Her hand slips off Betty’s shoulder, and the pressure roars up again. A little more in control, this time. A little more under her thumb. Betty breathes, and smiles again, and lets the moment with Archie slip away.

The next day, even as Cheryl and Veronica push and shove at each other with words, two queens fighting for the same space, Betty thinks it might—maybe—could be—a future. A friend. A good female friend. A girl other than Polly to talk to. Someone who doesn’t seem to want to ride off her perfect-girl image.

Maybe.

.

.

.

Veronica is not going to be her best friend.

Veronica, she thinks, slamming the door of Kevin’s truck behind her and trying not to cry, is going to go to _hell_.

“Betty,” says Kevin, but she puts up a hand.

“I’m going inside,” she says. “You—you can go back to the semi-formal if you want, Kev. I don’t—I don’t want to talk about it. Okay? I—”

“It was a dick move, on both of their parts, okay, but I don’t think you should be alone right now—”

“ _Leave me alone,_ ” she says, and it’s close to a shout, and the pressure that’s been building all week, from Archie getting distracted, from Veronica, from Jason, from Cheryl being a complete and total bitchqueen, roars back up her throat. She can feel the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. “Just—just _leave me alone_ , Kevin. I’ll be fine. Go _home_.”

Kevin looks like a whipped spaniel. He blinks at her, with his big eyes and perfect hair and perfect sweetness, and then he gets back into his truck and drives away. Betty waits on the stoop until she can get herself under control—until the swelling in her throat eases, until her nails have come away streaked with blood. She wants to rake her fingernails over her stupid perfect dress, rip it off her body. She wants to claw at her face and at her eyes and at her throat, at her stupid, stupid heart that thought _maybe_ things could work out. _Nothing_ works out for her, for what she wants. She gets nothing except the job of being her mother’s _perfect_ only daughter, because Polly’s been scribbled out of their lives as finally and irreparably as if someone took a sharpie to the family photographs.

She doesn’t come in the front door. She goes through the back, through the basement door that her dad’s never fixed, and clambers the stairs in absolute silence. She feels like a bomb, waiting to explode.

 _Hm._ Cheryl’s voice in her ear is a worm, wriggling, chewing away. _New girl works fast, don’t you think, Betty?_

The look on Archie’s face when Veronica had walked into the diner.

_I’ve heard things about Veronica Lodge, you know. About her family. You know they moved here cause her dad’s a criminal, right?_

She closes the door to her bedroom, so very, very quietly. Sits at her makeup table. Looks at herself in the mirror.

_Her and her family just take and take and take, Bettykins. Isn’t that right?_

Cheryl is poison. She wipes the lipstick off her mouth so roughly it feels like she’s made herself bleed. Cheryl is poison. Jason hurt her sister. Archie hurt her. Veronica turned out to be a two-faced socialite princess _bitch_. But this is fine. This will be fine. It was just a stupid game. She can _make this fine._

_Betty here has something she wants to ask you about the Back-to-School dance._

She looks down at her palms, and sees they’re streaked with blood. In silence, she uses a make-up remover pad to wipe it away, but it wells up anyway. Over and over and over. The pressure in her chest is like cement. Like she’s swallowed concrete.

_I have this fantasy of us as a power couple. Or maybe even just a couple. Is that so impossible to imagine?_

Her shoes come off. She can’t wear the heels anymore. She leaves the dress. The picture perfect dress. Downstairs her parents are arguing. She can’t hear about what, just the raised voices, surging like the tide on the Sweetwater.

_Is that so hard?_

Her phone goes off.

.

.

.

_I can’t give you the answer you want._

Betty shuts the front door to her house quietly behind her.

_You are so perfect._

Puts on tennis shoes.

_I’ve never been good enough for you._

Puts on her jean jacket.

_I’ll never be good enough for you._

Frees her hair from the collar.

_You are so perfect._

“I’m gonna take a walk around the neighborhood, Mom.”

Alice looks up. Polly always called this her Great White Shark Look. Like she’s scented blood in the water. “You’re not going out at this time of night.”

“It’s fine. I just need some fresh air.” Betty finds her keys, and stows them in her pocket. “It’s fine.”

“You’re going to meet that redhead, aren’t you?”

Her neck feels hot. She’s a firework waiting to burst. Her eyes burn. Her throat aches. “No.”

“I’ve told you time and time again, Elizabeth, that ginger-headed gremlin isn’t—”

“He turned me down, Mom,” she says, and her voice cracks on the last word. _Keep it together. For one more minute._ The pressure is building up her throat. “Just now. So I guess you get what you’ve always wanted.”

She can _feel_ it when her mother lights up. The struggle to hide her glee. She can’t be here any longer. “Elizabeth—”

She slams the door behind her. She’ll pay for it later, she thinks. Her mother doesn’t like having the door slammed on her. But she needs to get _out_.

The streets around her neighborhood are named after trees because the suburb backs right up onto the woods. It’s nice; there are walking trails through the forest, and a forty-minute walk takes you right up to the edge of Sweetwater River, right at a point where you can see Greendale on the other side. She and Archie and Jughead used to sneak into it when they were little kids, giggling and throwing mud and getting poison ivy and the tongue-lashings of their lives from her mother, who was _always_ convinced it was Archie’s idea. She only started going in at night when she turned about thirteen. Before, she’d been too scared. It’s something that her dad used to tell her when she was little—that she had to stay inside at night, because the woods were lovely in the daytime, but in the dark they were cold and full of monsters.

Betty takes the path between the Fredricksons’ and the Myers’ houses at a dead run. It’s oak and pine out here, elm and willow, hemlock plants lacing over the ground. The path is rough and uneven here, layered over with roots. She doesn’t trip. Betty runs and she runs and she runs, knowing the beat under her feet, the thrum of it. Her lungs burn, full acid. In the distance, she can hear dogs barking. Betty whips through the trees at a full sprint, and lights from faraway homes glimmer through the shadows. She can’t hear through the pounding of her heart and the hard thump of her feet, the crushing dark coming in close around her, and when she can’t take it anymore, she skids to a halt and lets go.

It’s like something in the air ripples. She can’t see it, whatever it is, but she feels it; a massive, moving _thing_ that bursts out of her like a boomerang, ricocheting away into the shadows. Then—suddenly, irreversibly—a tree explodes. Like it’s been struck by lightning, the tree cracks down the trunk, sheared neatly in half. She thinks it was a bitternut hickory, but in the dark it’s too hard to tell. The _crack_ nearly shatters her teeth in the reverb. A branch hits the ground, and then another, and then suddenly the whole half the tree comes falling down, away from her, crashing hard. It rattles up her bones.

Betty looks at her hands. There’s blood on her palms, marks from her nails, but she doesn’t need to clench her fists anymore. The pressure is—finally—gone.

For now.


	2. What A Wicked World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Betty processes, and gets a bit nasty. Veronica tries to make up for her mistakes. Cheryl gets more than she bargained for. Jughead avoids eye contact.
> 
> [Overlaps with Chapter Two: A Touch of Evil.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One Massive Warning for Alice Cooper's bullshit, y'all.

Monday morning comes sharp and early.

She hasn’t slept. She hasn’t really slept all weekend, if she’s honest. She woke up at about four in the morning, after an awful nightmare—she’d been tied up in a basement, and Hal had shot her in the head; she doesn’t want to read into the symbolism—and just sat at her makeup table to read and make sure all traces of the hard night and the hard weekend and the broken tree in the woods are smoothed out of her face.

Her dad had found the tree on Sunday afternoon, on one of his walks. He’d figured some random bolt of lightning sheared it, and gone through weather sites like a bloodhound trying to figure out why there’d be lightning on a clear night. Betty had kind of been grounded, after blowing off her mom post-semi-formal. No outings all weekend, no friend trips, no study meet-ups with Kevin, and to be honest it’d been what she needed. There had been a kind of vicious pleasure in telling Archie to go fuck himself via text. (She hadn’t used the language, but she’s pretty sure the pulled curtains sent a message.)

Veronica texted too. A surprising number of times. Almost thirty, at last count. Highlights include:

♕V♕ _: B, I’m sorry, I messed up really badly, I don’t know what happened_

♕V♕ _: I don’t know_

♕V♕ _: Betty, please, I know it was a massively shitty move, I’m so, so sorry, I was just trying to keep Cheryl away from him and it got out of hand_

♕V♕ _: I know you’re seeing these and I get you not wanting to talk to me and if you need me to give you space and time just say the word but I just want to say again I’m really, really sorry and I hope you believe me when I say it’ll NEVER happen again_

♕V♕ _: I won’t even look at Archie if you don’t want me to_

♕V♕ _: Complete and total ghosting_

♕V♕ _: Can we please talk on Monday so I can apologize in person?_

♕V♕ _:_ _Please?_

♕V♕ _: I don’t want to mess up our being friends b/c of this, I really meant what I said in Pop’s_

They’re sitting on read at the moment. Betty doesn’t know what to say, or what to do. Something hurts inside, like she’s swallowed lit matches. It’s not just Archie—cause she’s not _stupid_ , whatever happened in that closet, Archie was as much a participant in it as Veronica was. She _knows_ it’s not fair to put all the anger on Veronica, but—

_I have a feeling that we’re going to be best friends._

She shoves the memory out of her mind. She’ll see Veronica in cheerleading practice later today. She can try to deal with it then.

Alice is in full form that morning at breakfast. Jason’s autopsy results haven’t been released yet—Betty can’t help remembering seeing the lump they drew from the water, wrapped in an opaque piece of plastic, white and wet like the underbelly of a fish; not a boy, not a person, not the Blossom her sister had loved—and she’s gnashing her teeth over it in a very Alice sort of way, deliberately clanging her spoon too loudly against the interior of her coffee mug to get her irritation across. Betty stays quiet and eats her slices of cantaloupe. The healing crescents on her palms from her fingernails itch, the way freshly formed scabs do.

“Elizabeth,” says her mother, and Betty stills her hands so she doesn’t clatter the silverware and provoke a scene. “What are you doing today?”

“I have cheerleading practice,” says Betty. “After school. Until six.”

“I thought cheerleading practice is until five.”

“Usually, but it’s the pep rally tomorrow. Cheryl wants to finish working out the kinks in the choreography.” And she needs an hour to herself today, so if she’s lying to her parents about it, she doesn’t feel that bad. “Is that okay?”

Her dad scoffs, and leaves the dining room before Betty can say anything else.

“Yes, well,” says Alice. “Remember, Betty, sweetheart. That girl is a snake. And the others—you know what you have do with them.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Nothing,” says Alice. “You have _nothing_ to do with them.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“I want to hear you say it, Elizabeth.”

“I have nothing to do with them,” says Betty, and mechanically cuts a piece of her cantaloupe into smaller cubes.

“You should have listened to me in the first place, Betty,” says Alice, and something, some fuzzy cloud, drapes over Betty’s shoulders like a cloak of wasps. “A _Lodge_ girl, for heaven’s sake—you have _no_ idea what that family is like. And the _Andrews_. And joining the cheerleading squad, the same thing that led your sister to that—that _monster_ of a Blossom boy, I don’t know what you think you’re doing anymore—”

“I’m going to school,” says Betty, and stands to get a Tupperware. If she throws out half-eaten cantaloupe, her mother won’t let her leave the house. “And then I’m going to cheerleading practice, because it’s something I’m doing for _me_ , Mom.”

“You’re so close to turning into your sister, Betty, I’m just trying to keep you safe—”

“I’m _not Polly_ ,” says Betty. She snaps the Tupperware closed, and puts it in the fridge. Grabs her school bag. “I’ll be back by six thirty.”

“Elizabeth—”

“I know,” she says, and hitches a smile up on her face. “Everything’s perfect.”

Alice pauses. She comes around the table, taps Betty just slightly under the chin to tip her head just slightly further upward. Then she smiles.

“There,” she says. “Now it’s perfect.”

Betty’s hands shake the whole walk to school. Archie, who seems overjoyed she’s even speaking to him still, doesn’t notice.

.

.

.

She hasn’t been on campus for more than five minutes before Veronica tracks her down.

“Oh my god,” Veronica says, and practically skids into the administration office, a box of cupcakes in her hands. “Finally, I’ve been trying to find you—”

“How did you know we were _here_ ,” Kevin says, already bristling, but Veronica doesn’t seem to even realize he’s there. She’s looking _right_ at Betty, and that funny cold-storm feeling is back, the one that Veronica had brought into Pop’s. Like popping static against ice. Kevin is glaring at Veronica like he can shoot needles from his stare.

“I’m so sorry,” Veronica says, and shoves the little white box into Betty’s hands. Betty almost drops it. “Betty, I’m so, so sorry—”

“Oh,” says Betty, wondering if it’s too early in the morning to slap someone.

“—I really, really didn’t mean to hurt you, I don’t know what happened to me at that stupid party, it was like—it was like old, nasty, witch queen Veronica came back and I really, really didn’t intend for that to happen at all and I _swear_ I’ll make it up to you—”

Veronica had never struck Betty as a babbler, in the week they’d known each other before the semi-formal. She’s babbling now, color flushed into her cheeks under the foundation, her eyes wide and almost frightened. She wrings her hands.

“—whatever you want, hers-and-hers mani-pedis, never speaking or even _looking_ at Archie again, I can declare him dead to me if that’s what you want—”

“Veronica—”

“Please,” says Veronica, and her voice cracks. “Please. There—what I said, I meant it. And—and boys aren’t worth losing the kind of friendship I think we could have. Please, Betty.”

 _It wasn’t the boy._ It boils up her throat. _It wasn’t that it was a boy. It was a boy I liked, and you took him when I trusted you not to._

“Okay,” says Betty, and smiles. _Everything’s perfect. Everything. Is. Perfect._ “Of course.”

“Oh my god,” Veronica says, and her eyes actually well up with tears. The icy spark leaps under Betty’s skin when she flings her arms around Betty’s neck, honest-to-god crying a little into the collar of her cardigan. “Oh my god. I—I promise, you won’t regret this. I _promise_ , B.”

Veronica whirls out of the room like she came into it, all tornado-wild. Kevin just _looks_ at her.

“It was that or breaking her nose,” Betty says, shortly, and stalks out of the admin office.

She thinks she sees a flicker of dark hair and plaid around the corner, but when she turns, it’s gone.

.

.

.

It’s petty and stupid when she lashes out at Veronica later. It’s that, though, or explode, and after the awkward confrontation with Archie at lunch, she doesn’t have the patience to hold back anymore.

She’s never, once, hung out with Cheryl Blossom in her life. If Veronica is all ice and electric shocks, then Cheryl is something heavy and cloying in the back of her throat. Like dead roses, she thinks. Or dying ones.

Betty’s not _entirely_ sure how Cheryl does it, but it’s a whirlwind—the mani-pedis, and then a milkshake at Pop’s, and then, suddenly, Cheryl is in her room, her long red hair whirling as she inspects _everything_ in Betty’s closet. Betty sits on the stool in front of her makeup table, wishing she’d thought to stow Caramel the Cat away behind the pillows of her bed like she usually did (since her mother thought it was long since time she _stop_ sleeping with a toy). Cheryl, if she’s seen the plush, hasn’t commented. She comes back to the makeup table, and presses her lips together in a thin, flat smile.

“Your room is cute.”

“It’s—really girly,” says Betty, uncomfortable. She has a headache, all of a sudden. “I want to change it.”

“No, it’s cute,” says Cheryl. “Mine is girly too. You should come see it sometime.”

The _last_ thing, in this life, that Betty Cooper wants to do is go to Thornhill, ever again. She bites the inside of her cheek hard enough to split skin, and it’s with blood streaking her tongue that she says, “Yeah, sure.”

“You have such pretty eyes,” says Cheryl, and picks over Betty’s makeup. Betty’s headache spikes, all at once, and she has to swallow to keep from vomiting. Something about the headache is picking at her, but she can’t work out what. “Can I—?”

She gestures to the eyeshadow.

“Yeah,” says Betty. She doesn’t want pointy objects wielded by Cheryl Blossom anywhere near her eyes, either, but there’s no polite way to decline. “I guess.”

“This is so nice,” says Cheryl, and uncaps one of the mascara bottles. “I don’t get to play with makeup anymore. Except for me, of course. Jason used to let me try out new looks on him, cause then I could see how it’d look on me, y’know? We had such similar skin tones. And the famous Blossom hair, _obviously._ ”

“Oh,” says Betty.

“You look like you have a headache,” says Cheryl. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“How are you doing, though?” says Cheryl, and the headache pierces her skull again, sharp as a railroad spike. Betty flinches, and Cheryl laughs. “I won’t _blind_ you, Bettykins. Don’t worry.”

“No, sorry. I’m jumpy. The—the last one to do this with me was Polly.”

Cheryl’s eyes widen, but at the same time, the pain in Betty’s head eases, just a bit. Cheryl leans forward, and brushes gently at Betty’s eyebrows before blowing her own hair out of her eyes, all flippant.

“How _is_ dear Polly?” She sounds blasé. Cheryl Blossom is _never_ blasé. “I mean, I didn’t hear much after—after I went away for the summer. Mommy and Daddy didn’t exactly send postcards.”

Betty watches Cheryl, watches her focus on the work she’s doing to Betty’s brows. There’d been rumors, of course, after Jason vanished, that she’d been sent to some kind of psych institution after having a mental breakdown. There’d been more rumors _before_ Jason vanished that Cheryl was kind of into her brother in the way a sister shouldn’t be, but she’d always written those off too, considering her mom had been the one to come up with the more scandalous headlines about it. Cheryl’s eyes are vulnerable, though, and cold, like she’s looking at something in the far-distance that frightens her. She pulls back, and purses her lips, and then the look is gone, replaced by the kind of look Cheryl always wears: disaffected, proud, and distantly awful.

“I was staying with my aunt,” says Cheryl, and finds tubes of lipstick on the table. “In case you were wondering. Mommy and Daddy thought it was—best that I be away from Riverdale after my—little tantrum at Pop’s.”

 _You mean when you started screaming in front of everyone, threw up on the floor, and had a seizure?_ Betty thinks, but she doesn’t say it. She lets Cheryl put her thumb to her chin, part her lips just a bit for a dash of lipstick. “Oh.”

“ _Oh_ ,” says Cheryl, in a mockery, and then rubs her lips together as if to demonstrate how to apply lipstick properly. Betty doesn’t mimic her. “You can _say_ it, Betty. I had a bit of a thing after Jason—after. It’s not like it’s a secret. But I’m all better now, so say they all. A recovered masterpiece. Porcelain glued back together with gold, the way they do in Japan. More priceless for the breaking. No?”

Betty doesn’t know what to say, so she doesn’t say anything. Cheryl finds mascara this time, and goes to darken her brows.

“So.” Cheryl turns Betty’s cheek just a bit, dabs with the mascara wand. “You—you and I are kind of the same in a weird way. We’ve both kind of—lost siblings.”

Betty bites her tongue. _I haven’t lost my sister,_ she wants to say. _Your brother took her. He stole her from me._ “I guess.”

“And you know I loved Jason.” Cheryl keeps dabbing with the wand. “But Mommy and Daddy won’t say a thing about—about what happened back in July. And before he—left—you know, Jason didn’t tell me anything either. He didn’t say anything. But Mommy and Daddy haven’t said anything _since_ , either.”

“It’s the same here,” says Betty. “My mom and dad won’t—won’t talk about Polly. It’s like she’s not even here. Or like she never even existed.”

“Exactly!” Cheryl leans back, her eyes fluttering wide, like a real girl instead of a walking stick figure of spite. “Like it’s like—whatever Jason and Polly did, whatever they, y’know, _fought about_ , our parents won’t talk about it, and it’s not _fair_.”

Betty hums.

“So did Polly say anything to you?” Cheryl goes back to playing with mascara, and all at once, the pain in Betty’s head comes back. Surging, like poison. “Like, about anything Jason might have told her? About himself? Or—anything else?”

“Polly never really talked about Jason with me.”

“She must have said _something_ , Betty. Weren’t you two—close?” She moves her mouth around the word like it unnerves her. Betty’s skull is _throbbing._ “Weren’t you sisters?”

“Why do you want to know so much about Polly?”

The air quivers, as if plucked. In Betty’s bedroom, the lights flicker. Cheryl leans back, and says, “ _Because_ , you stupid, short-lived little _cow_ , someone stoned my brother to death and threw him in the Sweetwater and I think it was _you_ and your _entire psychotic family_!”

Shadow surges up her throat. Betty clenches her fists, and breathes, but it’s too fast, the surge is too strong; it’s like a tsunami, like a tide she can’t control, and it writhes up her throat, coating her mouth with coppery blood. Cheryl grips her chin, her jaw, and leans forward.

“I may not be the way I was with Jason but if you think I can’t _drag it out of you_ , you dim-witted—”

The window slams open. Cheryl jumps, so violently that she upends one of Betty’s little bottles of foundation. It spills pale over the smooth glass of her makeup table. Wind rakes its nails across the walls, over her curtains, over the posted bits of magazine clippings, the flyers and the photos taped to the headboard. It whistles, like a voice. All at once, Betty’s headache—from the pressure, she thinks, building in her chest all this time—has vanished.

“Betty,” says Cheryl, and for the first time, Betty thinks, she thinks she might be seeing Cheryl Blossom frightened. Her beautiful dark eyes are blown wide open. “Betty, wait—”

“Shut up,” says Betty, and it’s like her throat is raw. It comes out hoarse and dark. There’s violence in her skin. “For once in your life, _shut up_ , Cheryl.”

Cheryl opens and closes her mouth, but nothing comes out. Her hair tangles over her face in the wind.

 _Do it._ She can feel the violence boiling up her throat. _Do it._ She could sink her nails into Cheryl’s pretty face and rake. Blind her. Rip her hair out. Slit her throat. Hang her head up like a trophy. _Do it._

“Cheryl,” says Betty, and she can barely feel the hurricane whipping around the room. “Get the hell out of my house before I _kill you._ ”

Cheryl runs. Betty doesn’t move. She stands there, the wind slowly dying, until the echo of the front door slamming makes it up to her room, before sitting down hard on the chair in front of her makeup table. The foundation is dripping onto her carpet, and it’ll stain. She should get seltzer, clean it up. Her heart’s racing, and there’s something—something wild and _joyful_ ripping through her, like a living thing.

Her lungs ice over.

“God,” says Betty, and puts her face in her hands. “Oh god.”

Cheryl will tell everyone. Cheryl will tell _everyone._ Cheryl will walk right out the door into her car and text her little posse about the _freak_ Betty Cooper who lost it just like her sick sister and threatened to murder her. Cheryl will _tell_. Cheryl will tell, Cheryl will—

When Betty looks up, she sees the knots in her hair, the sticks and twigs blown into it by the wind, the tangles. She finds her phone, and sweeps through her text notifications— _Archie: plz betty listen 2 me I just want to talk to u—_ to Cheryl’s number.

She breathes out, slowly.

 _Say anything about what happened to anybody and you’ll wish you never came to this town,_ she types, and hits send before she can talk herself out of it.

Betty brushes the twigs from her hair, and goes to get seltzer for the carpet.

.

.

.

Cheryl doesn’t say anything.

Cheryl can’t seem to look her in the eye, but Cheryl doesn’t say anything. Cheryl acts as though Betty does not exist, and that’s _exactly_ how Betty wants it now. They share almost all the same classes—everything but their free periods and their AP History sections—but Cheryl never once looks her way, and Betty sits with Kevin, who never asks questions anyway, and gets through the day.

She should worry more, Betty thinks. But she had a night to think it over, lying awake and staring at the posters on her ceiling, and really, who is Riverdale going to believe: Betty Cooper? Sweet, unassuming, good girl Betty Cooper, always ready to help? Or Cheryl Blossom? Cheryl Blossom, who’s accused everyone in Riverdale of murdering her brother? Cheryl Blossom, who makes up stories and causes chaos and breaks hearts just for the fun of it? Cheryl Blossom, who might just be losing her damn mind?

As if she can feel her thoughts, Cheryl looks once over her shoulder, and meets Betty’s eyes. She jerks back around so hard that she tears the page of her notebook, shoulders hitching up close to her ears. Next to her, Reggie says something in a low and confused voice.

“What’s with the Red Queen?” Kevin says under his breath. Betty spins her mechanical pencil between her fingers, and leans back in her chair.

“Got me, Kev.”

When she turns back to the front again, she can feel Veronica’s ink-black gaze fixed on her face.

.

.

.

“What’d you do to Cheryl?” says Veronica, too faux-happy. She reaches down to touch her toes. “It’s like she can’t even look at you. Did you smash her car with a baseball bat or something?”

Betty stops in one of her stretches, and eyes Veronica through her lashes. Veronica’s not looking at her—she seems very focused on making sure she’s fully limbered up for the pep rally. Betty looks down at her toes again, focuses hard on the pull and burn of muscles in her back.

“She asked about Polly,” says Betty shortly, and then leans to stretch out her other side. “I told her off, that’s all.”

Veronica hums. “Seems like you put the fear of Christ into her.”

It’s an odd thing to say. Betty says, “I just told her the truth.” _And made the room shake. And said I’d kill her._ “That she needs to keep Polly’s name out of her mouth.”

“Go, you,” says Veronica, and smiles. It falters, a little. Then: “B, I’m really sorry. I’ve been thinking about it, and I know—I know that my apology wasn’t good enough. I should have been sorry for—for betraying your trust, not…Archie.”

Betty doesn’t say anything. She leans forward to put her elbows on the ground.

“He really misses you, if it’s any consolation,” says Veronica. She’s back to faux-happy, no cracks to be found. “He’s completely miserable.”

“You think that’ll make me happy?”

“D—God, _no_ , that’s not what I meant.” She takes a breath, in and out through her nose. “Look, a lot of the time, the people we like don’t like us back. And he feels horrible he can’t like you back. Because he _loves_ you. It’s totally obvious how much he loves you. It’s just the way life is a lot of the time.”

Betty scoffs. “Like you’ve ever had trouble getting a boy to like you back.”

“Actually,” says Veronica, “you’d be surprised.” She sits up straight, and then adds, “Look, hate me if you want. But stop punishing him, okay? Because he’s really depressed about all of it, and weirdly I care about him being depressed like I care about you being upset.”

She opens her mouth, and shuts it. The burned place deep in her chest stings.

“That’s all I wanted to say,” says Veronica, and goes to get up. Betty’s faster. She reaches out, and touches Veronica’s wrist. Veronica freezes, like a cornered deer.

“You’re right,” says Betty, after a moment. “You’re—you treated me really badly, Veronica. I trusted you, and you broke that trust.” She takes a breath. “But you’re right. Y’know. Like. I don’t know. I’ve been thinking a lot, lately. Things I can’t change. Like my mom, and what happened with Polly, and—and with Archie.” Her eyes blur. She wipes it away. “But—I don’t know. I’ve never done any of this before.”

Veronica’s lips quiver. “Betty,” she says, “the last school I went to was—nothing like this. It was—it was full of hags and monsters, if I’m honest. I couldn’t—trust anybody. And as soon as we started being friends I turned around and acted just like one of them. I can’t—make up for it. But Riverdale is—different—and if it helps, I have no idea what I’m doing either.”

“It—it does. Yeah.” Betty swallows. “But—thank you. For—for the apology. I accept it.”

“Good,” says Veronica, and arches one perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Let me know if Cheryl tries anything else. Not that you need any help, Betty, but for real: I’ve dealt with girls like her for years. I know _exactly_ how to shut her up.”

“How?”

“Hang her out to dry,” says Veronica, and flutters her lashes. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do with succubitches?”

With that, Veronica flounces away, to get her pompoms from the locker room, no doubt. Betty keeps on stretching, and sinks into thought.

.

.

.

Making up with Archie is easy. Everything with Archie, up until now, has been easy. It’s as easy as seeing him in Pop’s with Jughead and asking them to join. It’s as easy as Archie sliding into the booth next to her, knocking into her with hips and shoulders, and draping his arm over the back of the seat like he always does, a big, gangly puppy of a boy who’s always been her bedrock.

She’ll cry later tonight, she thinks. She’ll take the time to heal. But—she can get through this. She _will_.

.

.

.

It’s been an hour at _least_ since they started talking, and somehow, it takes that long for it to process. Still, it sticks in her head.

“Jones, huh?” says Veronica, and eyes Jughead for a long time. “You know, my mom’s mentioned your dad a few times. When she talks about the old days.”

“Uh-oh,” says Jughead, and arches one eyebrow. “That sounds ominous.”

“Nothing too bad,” says Veronica. She flicks her eyes up and down, from hat to feet, and then says, “From what I’ve heard, you clearly take after him.”

“Uh-oh,” says Archie this time. “Should we be prepping for a Jones-Lodge war?”

“Like the Joneses would ever win that war,” says Jughead, but he looks uncomfortable. His eyes flicker to the window, and then to the door. Under the table, Betty reaches out with one foot to touch Jughead’s ankle, and he jumps a mile before catching her gaze and nodding once, ever so slightly.

“Please,” says Veronica, and takes a sip of her milkshake. “The Lodges are disgraced, haven’t you heard? You’d be fine.”

“Mm,” says Jughead, fidgeting, and then says, “I’ll tell my dad your mom says hello.”

“Wouldn’t want there to be any confusion about our intentions here in good old R-Dale,” says Veronica sagely, and looks back to Betty. Something is here, Betty thinks. Something is _here,_ just beyond her reach. She can’t put her finger on it quite yet. “So, B, what do you do for fun around here? Aside from TPing houses on Halloween.” 

Jughead avoids her eyes for the rest of the night. Betty sips at her milkshake, and thinks.


	3. The Wickedness of Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some questions are answered, some answers are questioned. The Blue & Gold is reopened for business. Veronica gets a sticky maple. Hal gives Betty a gift. Betty overhears something she shouldn't. 
> 
> [Overlaps with Chapter Three: Body Double.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't look up klismaphilia, guys.

PonyTailB: _Hey Juggie!_

fpj3: _oh, hey stranger._

fpj3: _we talk now?_

PonyTailB: _Ouch._

PonyTailB: _I deserve that though._

PonyTailB: _I know I barely emailed this summer._

fpj3: _betty oh my god i’m joking_

fpj3: _you sent like a million emails_

fpj3: _and tried to vidcall me_

fpj3: _while organizing a TONI MORRISON SIGNING_

fpj3: _you went above and beyond to keep in touch_

fpj3: _i’m the one who has a shit data plan._

PonyTailB: _I still should have made sure you could sit with us at lunch._

fpj3: _wouldn’t have worked out, archie and i aren’t really the best example of brotherly love atm._

fpj3: _besides, you wanna be seen talking to the school pariah after what happened with reggie?_

PonyTailB: _You’re not the school pariah, Juggie._

PonyTailB: _I’m sorry I didn’t call after what happened._

PonyTailB: _I should have checked in on you after what Reggie said, I just got stuck with the pep rally and River Vixen stuff._

fpj3: _hey, it’s ok._

fpj3: _you bought me food, we’re square._

fpj3: _would have ruined my street cred to have riverdale’s newest river vixen™ checking in on me anyway._

fpj3: _i have a certain image to uphold._

PonyTailB: _Like asking Reggie Mantle if he can spell necrophilia just for giggles?_

PonyTailB: _Next on the list: klismaphilia._

fpj3: _see betts? you DO know me._

“Betty?” says Hal, and Betty looks up from her computer. Her dad looks tired. She’s not sure if it’s because of Polly, or because of Jason’s body, or the news about the Twilight, or just from something that’s deeper, some nebulous _thing_ that’s drawing the life out of him inch by inch, but his cheeks seem dilapidated. The way a basset hound’s cheeks look, when the dog loses a dozen pounds in a month. “It’s a school night, sweetie.”

“Yeah, Dad.” She looks back to Tweeter. The DM alert from @fpj3 is going off, but he knows she’s at home, and that it’s nearly eleven, and she has strict electronics curfews. She’s vanished on him before. He won’t mind. “I’m just making an appointment with someone at school tomorrow. I’ll close down in a second.”

“An appointment?” Hal leans against her door frame. His eyes skim the room. “Sounds official.”

“It could be. If it goes well. I think.” She half-closes her laptop. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, sweetie.” He hasn’t stopped looking around her room. “Smells like your mom smudged in here.”

“Yeah, she came—running in with sage after Cheryl left.” Betty scowls. “Not like that’s appropriative and disrespectful of Indigenous people, or anything—”

“Hey now. You can’t be too careful with the Blossoms,” says Hal. One corner of his mouth quirks up. “Check under your pillow before you go to sleep. Legend has it they’re good with curses.”

It takes her a minute to hook the smile back onto her mouth. She rolls her eyes at him, and crosses her legs on the bedspread. “Yeah, right, Dad.”

“I mean it, Betty,” says Hal, and Betty looks at him. “Stay away from the Blossoms. I know you have cheerleading with their daughter, but I don’t want you associating with them at all otherwise.”

“Kind of hard when they run the whole town,” says Betty, but when Hal just looks at her, she sighs. “Okay, Dad.”

“I’m just worried,” he says. “Your mom’s just worried. You know that, right?”

“She could show it more nicely.”

“Your mom has—difficulty sometimes. When she’s scared.” He sighs. “Just—grit your teeth until Polly gets better, okay? And then we can all go back to normal.”

 _I don’t think there is a normal anymore, Dad,_ she thinks, and looks at him, at his worn and tired face. _I don’t think there can be a normal after this._

“Okay,” says Betty.

“Good girl,” says Hal, and smiles. “Be sure to say your prayers tonight, okay?”

Betty hasn’t prayed in years. Not since the first time she looked up _can people make things move with their minds_ on a school computer after her period started, and found _telekinesis_ and _poltergeist_ as search results. She’s not possessed—she’s certain of that—but her childhood terror has never quite faded. She just hasn’t had the heart to tell her father that. About any of it. “Of course, Daddy.”

“Night.”

He shuts her door, quietly. Betty gets up, waits for his footsteps to fade out, and turns the lock on her doorknob before retreating back to her bed.

fpj3: _congrats on the river vixen gig, btw._

fpj3: _did you have to literally yank the thorns that spell out “i hate coopers” out of cheryl blossom’s ass?_

fpj3: _earth to betts~_

fpj3: _have your parents kicked it back to 10:45 as a cutoff now?? fascists._

PonyTailB: _Sorry, my dad was checking on me._

PonyTailB: _also oH MY GOD JUGHEAD JONES_

PonyTailB: _OMFG!!!!!!!!!_

fpj3: _what?_

PonyTailB: _THORNS?!?_

fpj3: _you know i’m right._

PonyTailB: _Still!!!!! That’s so mean!!!!_

PonyTailB: _And if I laugh any louder I’ll wake my mom!!!!!_

fpj3: _oh no._

fpj3: _can’t wake lady Macbeth._

fpj3: _anyway: did you hex her or something?_

PonyTailB: _Veronica stood up for me actually. Said she wouldn’t join if I didn’t._

PonyTailB: _And Cheryl REALLY wanted her to join._

PonyTailB: _Thank you for the congrats though!!! <3 <3 _

PonyTailB: _I’ll have to shake my pompoms in your face at the next rally :P_

fpj3: _nooooooooo._

fpj3: _not mylar strands._

fpj3: _my worst nightmare._

PonyTailB: _That out of literally everything going wrong in this town this week?_

fjp3: _what can i say,_ _i have character._

PonyTailB: _You’re a goof._

PonyTailB: _I wanted to ask you a favor actually._

PonyTailB: _Can you meet me in the Blue & Gold office before homeroom tomorrow? _

fpj3: _this sounds like a plot._

fpj3: _like a plan!_

fpj3: _like a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma!_

fpj3: _and you know i can’t resist a mystery._

PonyTailB: _You’ll get your answers, Churchill._

PonyTailB: _Just be sure to be there before homeroom!_

PonyTailB: _I think you might like what I want to propose._

fpj3: _ooh, tantalizing._

fpj3: _i’ll be there._

PonyTailB: _You’re the best, Juggie._

fpj3: _pshaw pshaw._

fpj3: _see you tomorrow, betts._

PonyTailB: _Sleep sweet!!_

She shuts her computer, and puts it to the side of her bed. Caramel is jammed against the small of her back, and Betty worms the plush cat out, settling her in her lap and hooking her nails into the worn downy fur of the old toy. She’s pretty sure Jughead will join her. He’s always been curious, sometimes too much so for his own good, if she listens to Mrs. Andrews. _That boy. He’ll poke his nose in somewhere and get the thing chopped off if he’s not too careful._ Then, Mr. Andrews, teasingly: _It’s certainly long enough._

That’d been before, though—before Mary Andrews had driven away to Chicago, before they’d started high school, before Jughead had to move out to the trailer park, any of it. Maybe that’s when things started breaking, not when Jason died. Maybe Jason’s death had exposed the rot and monstrousness of Riverdale, not created it. But there are things no one is talking about, things no one _wants_ to talk about, and she clenches her hands on Caramel as she thinks. _What about the scouts? What about Cheryl? Who shot Jason and why? Why so long after he disappeared? A week? More? Why—_

— _human howls echoed through the woods. She is running, running and running and running. She is wearing a long robe, dimly red in the light of the moon. Ahead of her, a girl with white-blonde hair runs faster, and vanishes between two great elm trees. Someone shouts her name, but it’s in joy, an encouragement. Faster, faster, faster, Betty. Another howl, and the echo of an ancient horn, and she is running, running, running—_

Branches creak against her window. Betty jumps, and the glass of water on her bedside table jumps with her, leaping off the tabletop of its own accord, and spilling in broad, delicate arcs over the carpet. The glass doesn’t break, thank god; it spins away, under the bed, and Betty looks at the big splotch of water on her carpet. She lets out a shaky breath, long and slow. The hallucination is gone. She doesn’t know what it was. It left something behind, though—a feeling, a rush, tingling muscles in her thighs as if she’d been going for a run. And joy, somehow. It feels sick and strange in her throat, in the mess of all the fear and frustration and anger.

 _As soon as Polly comes back,_ she thinks again. It’s hollow in her head. _I’ll start getting better once Polly gets back._

It’s been months since she’s had so many episodes, back to back to back. Years. She had this under _control_ before, things moving, branches breaking, the wind picking up when she got too angry. She has to get things back under control again, before someone notices. She doesn’t have Polly anymore to run to when she gets too upset. She has to do it on her own.

She stares at the water on her floor again. Then—carefully, to prove to herself she can do it—she points her finger at it. The damp spot fades, dries. A bit of steam wisps away into the air, and vanishes. Betty bends, scoops the water glass out from under her bed, puts it back on her bedside table, and then turns out the light.

.

.

.

The powers hadn’t come at the same time as the hallucinations.

It’d been months later, she thinks. At least two. That time in her life is fuzzy, a whole mess of anti-psychotics and anti-depressants, medications that kept her sedated and moving slowly through life, as if she were trapped in Riverdale’s famous maple syrup. That summer had been the first and only she’d spent mostly inside, despite Archie and Jughead showing up every day asking if she could come hang out. “Betty’s not feeling well,” Alice had said, “summer allergies,” and shut the door firmly in their faces, because they couldn’t risk Betty being _seen_ like she was in the neighborhood. And because Alice has always hated both the Andrews’ and Jones’ boys, nobody blinked an eye at it.

Only Polly had ever known. Polly, who had smuggled her books and read them aloud to her when Betty couldn’t focus her eyes long enough to get through the words. Polly, who’d held her hand the first time Betty had thrown something across the room with her brain, and said, _well, if Matilda Wormwood can control it, you can_. Polly, who’d put a finger to her smiling lips and said _come on, Betty, let’s see what you can do._ Polly, who never, ever was jealous or angry or frightened of her, who saw that Betty was _scared_ of herself and let her simply _be,_ who told her to start going out to the woods when it got too bad so that any damage could be written off as some kind of vandalism or freak weather event. Polly, who sat her down in the dead of night and made her swear to never tell their parents, never to tell her friends, because _remember the Salem Witch Trials, Betty? People don’t like what they don’t understand. And Mom and Dad, people here, in Riverdale—they won’t get this. They won’t._

Betty had been twelve, Polly fourteen. And Betty’s never broken that promise to her sister. She’s not told her parents. She hasn’t told _anyone_. She worked—and worked _hard_ —and got control of herself again, so by the end of the summer she could pretend the hallucinations had steadied out, and she could go back to school without ripping open every locker door in the hallway when Reggie Mantle called her a frigid bitch for not letting him feel up her growing boobs under the stairs.

She’s a mutant. She’s _pretty_ sure. That sounds super stupid, especially when she says it aloud, but every other option is even more ludicrous. She can just—move things with her brain. Maybe, she thinks, wryly, she’s what her mom always wanted: a better, more perfect person. But Polly is right. She can’t tell anyone. If she tells anyone, who knows what the town will do to her.

Or her parents.

Betty crams the pillows over her ears, and squeezes her eyes shut.

.

.

.

Sometimes the River Vixens have morning practices, but not today. It means for the hour before homeroom, Betty has time to use the library.

The library computers are supposed to have an algorithm set up so that students can’t look anything up that could be illegal—like, say, Reggie searching for porn—but Polly was— _is_ , she thinks, hard at herself—very good at computer programming. She’d taken a summer class the same summer Betty had gone to journalism camp, and when Betty had returned, Polly had set up her computer to give herself a kind of privacy mode. “That way Mom and Dad can’t _snoop_ ,” Polly had said, and tapped the end of Betty’s nose with one forefinger. “Our secret, okay? Just be sure not to leave it up.”

The computer had been broken in one of Betty’s episodes. Slid right out of her lap and the screen shattered against concrete. They’d had to replace it, and by the time she’d remembered to ask Polly about the settings, Polly was deeply in love with Jason and fighting with their parents. Somehow, the new computer had gone forgotten.

Betty still remembers enough of what Polly told her about the school computers to get around the algorithm, though, and that she can use. She does a hard reboot of the settings from _before_ the security program was installed—she’ll have to muddle through with a Giggle Chrome that’s months out of date and a computer with a date a year and a half past in the lower righthand corner—but it’s functional.

It’s then that she pauses, unsure where to go. It’s not like she has leads. It’s not like she has _any_ idea what she’s doing. Just—a sense that questions aren’t being answered, and people aren’t being looked at. The knowledge that something is _wrong_.

Jason, she thinks, and looks up the autopsy report. That, at least, is a starting point.

The broad information, she thinks, everyone knows. Jason Blossom and his twin sister Cheryl had gone out for a summer boat ride early in the morning of July the Fourth on the Sweetwater River. Cheryl has since had to confess that she rowed him, high and dry, to the other side; that he’d been trying to leave. A week later, on July eleventh, Jason had been killed—beaten to death, according to the autopsy, possibly with rocks. His white suit had been immaculate—no blood, no tears—but almost every bone in his body had been broken. The bullet in the head had been overkill. It was impossible to tell the time of day exactly he’d been killed, or how long he’d been kept on ice, but she _does_ know—and she’s not sure anyone else has remembered this yet—that Cheryl Blossom had had her screaming breakdown in Pop’s on the same day. Late that afternoon. Betty’s never believed that twins had a psychic connection, the way fantasy novels talk about, but maybe Cheryl’s breakdown had had something to do with—with that innate sense of someone she’d been born with being dead. Who knows.

 _You rip trees apart when you get upset,_ says a little voice in her head, and Betty scowls into the computer screen. _Weirder things have happened._

She prints out the article on the autopsy report. She has a million copies of it at home—her mother’s very proud of her exposé, and Betty’s sure if she asked she could get a copy of the actual autopsy report—but she wants her own; a cheap few pieces of paper from the school’s broken printers, something she can write her thoughts on and keep in her locker, away from her mother’s claws.

Jughead’s waiting for her when she gets to the _Blue & Gold_ office. He’s kind of crammed himself into a corner between two sets of lockers, out of sight of most of the people in the hallway, but Betty’s known him since they were barely five; she knows how to pick him out of a crowd. He straightens up when she gets to the door, and cocks one eyebrow when she pulls the key Weatherbee gave her yesterday out of her pocket to unlock the door. “Look at you, Dorothy Kilgallen.”

“I was thinking more Nellie Bly,” says Betty, and Jughead lifts both eyebrows before following her into the Blue & Gold office. “You know, asylums and hot air balloons.”

“Got me there.” He picks a magnifying glass out of one of the pencil cups, and inspects it rather than look at her. “You said you had a proposal?”

Betty lays it out. She’d gone to Weatherbee yesterday, after her mom had suggested she work for the _Register._ (She’d rather _die_ than work for her parents on a normal day; when she can barely control her temper and her hallucinations are happening every other day, it’s even more impossible.) It’d been easy to get him to agree; Weatherbee hadn’t liked seeing the _Blue & Gold _shut its doors any more than Mrs. Wright, its old advisor, had. That’d been before Betty’s time at Riverdale High, though. Before Polly had come to the school, even. At least five years had gone by, and it shows in the equipment in the office; every computer in here is probably from the late nineties.

Jughead hears her out, head tipped just slightly as if contemplating. He agrees, though. His curiosity is too much for him, she thinks, and maybe it’s mean to be using that against him, but she can’t do this alone, and she trusts Jughead. And—it only rankles _just_ slightly to admit this, as she’s long since come to terms with it—Jughead’s a better writer than her. She’s a good writer, but she’s had to work at it to get that way. Jughead seems to write like he breathes, like it’s something innate, and she _needs_ that if she’s going to get the _Blue & Gold _up off the ground again. Plus—and she’s sure he’ll agree with this—Betty’s too well known to ask too many questions. Jughead, by his very nature—a little shy, a little bit of an outcast, a little bit Unknown to the rest of the school at large—can get information out of people much, much more easily than Betty.

The first warning bell goes off as they finish talking, and Betty starts packing her stuff up for AP Lit. She’d taken her printouts out to show Jughead, going over the autopsy report, and somehow her copy of _The Crucible_ (which Mrs. Wright had passed out on the first day back at school) had fallen under the desk. She’s just retrieved it, brushing dust off the cover, when Jughead says, “Hey.”

Betty looks up from _The Crucible,_ and blinks. “What?”

“I—forgot to ask yesterday.” He fidgets with the strap of his bag. “You okay?”

“Yeah!” Betty says. The smile pops back up. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know,” says Jughead, and pulls a sardonic face at her. “Your sister’s been sent away? Archie was an idiot and turned you down? Cheryl being Cheryl?”

“I can handle Cheryl,” says Betty. Jughead quirks his mouth.

“Oh, I know you can handle Cheryl. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck to have to deal with the Witch Queen of Riverdale High.”

“Hah.” Betty rolls her eyes. “I mean, sure. But no, I’m—I’m okay.”

Jughead looks at her, and waits.

“I’m okay,” she says again, and it comes out quieter. “I think I’m okay. I don’t know. Everything’s just really—weird. You know, with Polly, and my parents, and everything.”

“Yeah, no shit,” says Jughead, but he tips his head in a nod, eyes darting away. Jughead’s always been kind of awkward in his own skin, the way Archie never was even in his pre-construction days. “Story of my life.”

Betty curls her hands around the back of the chair. “Is everything okay? With your dad?”

Jughead shrugs with his whole body, somehow. “No worse than usual.”

Betty nods. She’s never met Jughead’s dad. She’s heard enough about him over the years to know she’s not sure she really _wants_ to meet Jughead’s dad. He fidgets for a second, still not looking at her.

“Juggie—”

“The Scouts do their runs in the mornings before school on the field,” says Jughead, and Betty lets it go. “I’ll talk to them tomorrow, see what I can find out.”

“Sounds good,” says Betty. “Text me if you learn anything, okay?”

He taps his thumb to the end of his nose, and slips back out into the halls of Riverdale High just before the warning bell. Betty seizes her bookbag, and heads for AP Lit.

.

.

.

The rest of her day is then, of course, derailed by the aftermath of Veronica’s date with Chuck.

Sticky maples have been a Riverdale tradition since—well—since Chuck Clayton came to the school, Betty thinks. They’re disgusting, misogynistic, and slutshamey, but Chuck is a senior. Of course the rest of the football team snaps to his command. Of course the rest of the team plays into it. _Of course._

Unlike Cheryl, she’s not surprised to find Jason’s name in the book.

Just like Cheryl, she can’t breathe at the sight of Polly’s.

.

.

.

The morning after their date with Chuck in the hot tub, Betty comes downstairs to find a little jewelry box sitting next to her place at the breakfast table.

“Hey, pumpkin,” says her dad. For once, it’s Hal, and not Alice, hovering around the stove. Right, she thinks. The one day a week her dad makes breakfast, and it’s always coffee and bacon. She’s pretty sure he doesn’t know how to make anything else. “I know it’s not any kind of special occasion, but—I was going through the attic yesterday, and I found something.”

Betty puts her bag down. She doesn’t want to open that box. The hair on her arms is standing up. She swallows, and then says, “Dad.”

“I think you’ll like it, honey.” Hal waves his spatula, and a bit of bacon grease hits Alice’s perfect countertop. Betty doesn’t point it out. “Go on, open it.”

The air over the top of the box feels cold. Not like a nice cold, not cool and lovely, but _icy_. Angry-icy, like it’ll sting if she touches it. Hal is watching her, though, and she can’t—she can’t give any indication that something is wrong. She picks up the box—it’s velvet, but worn velvet, probably older than her dad—and cracks it open, carefully.

It’s a crucifix. A little one, delicate gold, with a long silvery chain that will mean the cross settles between her breasts if she puts it on. There’s a pearl laid into the center of the cross. Betty wants to fling it across the room to get it away from her. Something about it is making her flesh crawl. The last time she’d felt this had been on a field trip to a traveling history exhibit about Nazis in eighth grade. She’d had a panic attack and had to leave the museum. This is—not worse, exactly, but—different. Different terrible. Different _evil._

She digs her nails into her palm.

“Dad,” she says, and her voice comes out hoarse like she’s emotional, instead of on the verge of throwing up. “It’s—beautiful.”

“It was your great-grandmother’s,” says Hal. “My grandmother’s. And before that it was her mother’s, and her grandmother’s before then. There’s a lot of history in it.”

Betty touches the edge of the crucifix. She swallows.

“I was thinking I’d wait until your birthday in November,” says Hal, “but I—I don’t know. There’s been so much going on in Riverdale lately, so many new people in town, I just—I thought it would be nice for you to have it now.”

Betty swallows. “It’s—it’s beautiful, Dad.”

“Put it on,” says Hal, and there’s nothing Betty can do but obey. She takes it out of the velvet case, drapes the chain around her neck. The cross settles right against her heart, and something—she’s not sure. Something flashes in her head. A raised knife. The image is gone as soon as it appeared.

Hal comes around the table, readjusts the chain against Betty’s neck. He seems satisfied.

“It’s gorgeous,” he says, and kisses her on the forehead. “I’m so glad you like it, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, Dad,” says Betty. “Thank you for thinking of me.”

“Of course, baby.” He kisses her forehead again, and then looks at her. “Now—your mom’s already gone to work, so if you want, I can drive you to school on my way in.”

“That works,” says Betty.

She waits until she’s safely inside the _Blue & Gold _office, waiting for the meeting with Weatherbee, to take the crucifix off. It goes right back into its box, and locked in the top right-hand drawer of her desk. She can figure out what to tell her dad later. That thing is _not_ going back onto her body.

“You okay?” says Jughead, stopping in the doorway and lifting one eyebrow. “You look like you just saw—well, another dead body.”

“Nothing,” said Betty. “My dad—just gave me some creepy necklace, that’s all.”

“Creepy?” Jughead spins a chair around, straddles it and props his elbows around the back. “Can I see?”

“It’s just some old crucifix.” Betty shakes her head. “Just—you know how sometimes you touch things and you can tell they’re like—not good?”

He nods.

“It’s just one of those,” she says. “But it was my grandmother’s. Apparently. And my great-grandmother’s, and my great-great-grandmother’s, so my dad wants me to wear it.”

Jughead taps his thumb against his nose for a moment or two.

“Sorry, I know it’s kinda—weird. Like I don’t believe in ghosts or anything, it just—the thing just— _feels_ evil. I don’t like it. And maybe that says something about my family, I don’t know, I just—ugh.” She puts her hands to her hair, checks for flyaway strands. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter.”

“You could put it in salt,” says Jughead.

Betty blinks.

“My mom’s—woo-woo.” He moves his mouth around it oddly. “Like not like—not to the point of like, a hippie. But she thinks places and things have memories. And I don’t know, maybe she’s right. Anyway, she swears by salt.”

“So like—what do I do?”

“Fill a plastic bag with salt, and put the necklace in it for a few days. It might not work, but according to her, salt—cleanses things.” He doesn’t seem to be able to meet her eyes. “I don’t know, it might help.”

She digests that, slowly. 

“I could do it if you want,” he adds. “Or—I don’t know. I know, it’s weird.”

“No,” she says. “No, I’ll—honestly, if nothing else, it’ll make _me_ feel better.” Betty reaches out, touches his arm. “I can get some salt on my way home from school. Thanks, Jug.”

His smile is thin, and folded in on itself. “Yeah. No problem.”

She looks at the locked drawer in her desk.

“I talked to Doiley by the way,” he adds, and hooks his arms closer around the back of his chair. “Not that it was useful.”

“What’d he say?”

He tells her.

.

.

.

Chuck gets suspended. It’s the second-best outcome, she thinks. She’d rather he’d be expelled— _everyone_ would rather he be expelled—but getting banned from football for the rest of his time on campus and staying _out_ of Riverdale High for a full month is the second-best solution, so she doesn’t fight too hard.

“Hey,” Veronica says, as they clear out of the principal’s office. “Can we—talk? For a minute?”

“What is there to talk about?” Betty hooks her bag higher over her shoulder. “Other than the fact that the whole _team_ should be expelled for what they did to the girls at this school—”

“No, I mean—” Veronica looks over her shoulder, tracks Coach Clayton walking past, before gripping Betty by the arm and pulling her away from the administrators’ offices. “Like—can we talk about what happened? With Chuck?”

Betty stills. She’d lost a few moments of time, in the middle of it. Not enough to be obvious—though Chuck had been spluttering when she’d come back to herself—but—she’d thought Veronica hadn’t noticed. “What is there to talk about?”

“The wig, and—and all of it.”

“Oh,” says Betty. “It was theatre.”

“But—I know we said full dark, no stars, but—”

“We got the footage,” says Betty. “What does it matter how it happened?”

“Betty,” says Veronica. “Betty, you called him Jason.”

Betty shuts her mouth. Opens it. Shuts it again. Veronica’s _looking_ at her, the look from the first time they met in Pop’s, focused to a laser point. Betty can’t meet her eyes. “No,” she says. Her heart’s hammering in her chest. “Actually, no. I didn’t.”

“You totally did,” says Veronica, and when Betty turns away, she follows, a hound in heels. “You _did_ , Betty. Do you not remember, you know, calling him _Jason_ and shoving his head under the water with one of your killer heels?”

She remembers a moment of blankness. But she’s—she’s never _done anything_ in a hallucination before. Never even _breathed_. “I couldn’t have done that. I don’t remember doing that at all.”

“You called yourself _Polly_ ,” says Veronica, and Betty fumbles her locker open with shaking hands. “Like—total _Dr. Jekyll, Mistress Hyde._ It was like you were another person, Betty—”

“I didn’t,” Betty says, voice high and sharp. She slams her locker shut. “Just—just let it go, Veronica.”

“Betty—”

“ _Let it go_ ,” she says. Her nails bite into her hands. “It didn’t happen. Okay? End of story.”

“Okay,” says Veronica. “Okay. If you say so.”

Betty ducks into the _Blue & Gold _offices, locks herself in, and has a panic attack.

She skips last period. There’s no point—it’s just her study hall, anyway; she usually spends most of her time in the library as-is—and sitting in the _Blue & Gold _office watching more copies of the _book of shame_ article print out of an ancient photocopier is more soothing than thinking about the concept of her hallucinations having teeth. Unlike her, Veronica _does_ have class, so she can’t keep asking questions about something she can’t know about, but—

Betty rubs her hands over her face. She’s never done anything in a hallucination before. Never—never _once_. And she can’t remember much about—well—obviously she can’t remember anything about the content of it, but all her hallucinations she’s come back to herself without movement. As if she’s put into a freeze-frame, while her mind plays out—whatever it does. And then her thoughts return, and she’s never once moved. Barely even _breathed_. The concept of her—of her _talking_ , of her—

No. Veronica was mistaken. She had to have been. She wouldn’t have moved. She _definitely_ wouldn’t have talked. Wouldn’t have said a single damn thing. And—and that’s that.

 _You know that’s stupid, Betty_ ¸ her common sense says.

 _Let me pretend I’m sane and Veronica’s crazy for like—two seconds, for fuck’s sake_ , she thinks to herself, and yanks the drawer of her desk open to get the stupid crucifix. The salt thing might work. And she has no reason to stay in school anymore, anyway.

She’s almost at the door when she hears the click of high heels. Betty doesn’t—think, exactly. She doesn’t want to be seen right now, doesn’t want anyone asking her any more questions. She backs away from the door of the _Blue & Gold_, puts her back to the wall and shuts her eyes.

“Betty?” says Veronica, and her hand clenches tight around the strap of her bookbag. “B, are you in there?”

“She went home,” says a voice, and Betty stills. That’s Jughead, she thinks. She hadn’t heard him in the hall. “Pretty sure.”

“Oh,” says Veronica. “…I’ll call her later, then.”

Heels click against the linoleum, past the door to the office. Betty shuts her eyes, breathes out shaky through her nose. _Go away_ , she thinks. _Go away, go away, go away_.

“What do you want with Betty, anyway?” says Jughead, and Veronica’s heels still against the hall floor. “She’s not your type, Veronica Lodge.”

Veronica scoffs. Betty can practically see her flipping her hair over her shoulder, squaring up for war. “Like she’s your type either, _Jones_.”

“Betty’s my friend,” Jughead says. “Has been since before we could talk properly. I don’t know what your plan is for her—”

“I’m not like I was before,” says Veronica. “I don’t want to hurt her.”

“Yeah, right.” Jughead scoffs. “You think I don’t know what crowd you ran with in New York? You and your little— _clique_ —liked nothing more than to eat girls like Betty alive.”

Betty presses her hand to her mouth. She does not breathe.

Veronica’s silence is stark. She says, “I’m not a part of them anymore.”

“Yeah, cause your dad got himself thrown into a little stone cell with a _lot_ of big locks on the door.” Jughead bites it out, colder than Betty’s ever heard him. “You and Cheryl have your little games, Veronica, and they may go over _their_ heads, but they don’t go over mine.”

“Jughead—”

“Betty and Archie might not realize what you are, but _I_ do,” says Jughead, and behind the door, Betty lets out a shaking breath and clutches her binder close to her chest. “If you do anything to hurt them, if _any_ member of your family comes after them, I _will_ find you, Veronica. We’ll find you. And you won’t like what happens.”

There’s a long, breathless pause. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“We might not be like we were,” says Jughead, “but we _can_ handle you. You and your mom. Without your dad around, it’d be easy. You’re not as powerful as you think you are.”

V says, “Message received, _Jughead_.”

Heels click away. Then, softer, she hears the padding of Jughead’s ratty sneakers. Betty holds her breath as he pauses near the door to the _Blue & Gold_—his shadow stands broad against the carpet, bigger, somehow, than he is in life—and then with a muttered curse he walks off. She doesn’t move until she’s certain he’s gone, barely even breathes. Betty sags against the wall, and closes her eyes.

When she comes out into the hall, no one is there.


	4. The Most Detestable Wickedness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sweetwater holds a secret. Betty sees things. Veronica makes a decision. 
> 
> [Part One of Chapter Four. Overlaps with Chapter Four: The Last Picture Show.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW FOR: rot, animals feeding on human flesh (past), and a LOT of discussion of Grundy and her bullshit. I'm not going to go into detail about it because Grundy disgusts me, but for survivors of CSA I can imagine even vague references to her might be triggery, so please be careful. 
> 
> HERE WE GO WE'RE DOIN PLOT DIVERGENCE IN THIS CHAPPIE

The morning after they talk to Dilton Doiley, Betty goes for a run through the woods.

She can remember, when they were all in first grade, when Dilton had been less—Doiley. Less aggressive, she thinks. Less red pill. Less mistrusting. When she’d been pulled out of school every afternoon by her mother in the weeks leading up to the Little Miss Riverdale beauty pageant—which Alice had insisted Betty participate in, to the point of having awful arguments with Hal over it, over _you can’t sexualize our six-year-old daughter, Alice_ and _you don’t know what this could mean for her when she gets older, Hal, colleges grant scholarships to winners and she needs to start early to get considered for those programs_ while Polly crawled into Betty’s bed upstairs and held her tight in the dark—Dilton had been the one to wave goodbye to her first. To wish her luck, and when she’d come back with a second-place medal, he’d been the first to congratulate her. Before Jughead. Before Archie, even.

He’d been sweet, back then. Glasses too big for his face, and books too heavy to carry. Then he’d started coming to school with black eyes, and that sweetness got buried. They’ve never been close since, but they still catch each other’s eyes in the hall, or outside when they get to school at the same time, Dilton’s dad shouting at him from the window of the beat-up old Jeep he drives, Betty walking alone because she doesn’t want to be driven to school by her mother.

They were the same, her and Dilton. For a long time. Pressure cracks people in different ways, Betty thinks. Unlike her, Dilton hadn’t had a Polly to protect him from the worst. He remolded himself into his father’s image. He believes wholeheartedly in the world his father gave him, the paranoia and the viciousness and the desperation, because it was the only structure he had, the only support. He might be kind of crazy now, might be most likely to start a cult in Riverdale High, might be teaching fourteen-year-old Adventure Scouts how to shoot rifles because _when the end comes you need to know how to protect yourselves_ , but he’s never been a liar. Not Dilton. Never Dilton.

She has no reason to disbelieve him, aside from the fact that the whole thing makes her sick.

The sun’s barely up when she makes it down to the water. She hadn’t been able to sleep, and she always feels the most—calm, in the woods. She stopped by the tree she’d destroyed, the night of the semi-formal, and put her palm to it in a vague sort of apology. She can’t exactly _fix_ it—she’s never been able to fix things, only break them—but she can put her hands to the trunk and say _sorry_ in a voice so soft she’s not sure it actually comes out her mouth. The rustle of a morning breeze through the leaves and the soft chirp of birds just coming awake before the sunrise are the only things she can hear; not even the most ambitious of Riverdale’s supermoms is taking advantage of the jogging paths yet, and it means she can feel alone, truly alone, for the first time since Jason’s death.

 _Who are you kidding_ , she thinks. _You’ve been alone since Polly vanished. Stop fooling yourself._

Betty puts her headphones in the pocket of her running shorts—she doesn’t want to listen to music; she only brought them out to fool her mother—and starts a slow steady jog to the river. She’s been avoiding her river runs since Jason’s body was found. She hasn’t gone back to the boat launch—no one has—but before, last year when Cheryl had told her she was too fat for the River Vixens and she’d taken it _far_ too much to heart, Betty had been out here, sprinting, nearly every day. She’d snuck extra dance classes in, too, and boxing sessions that Polly drove her to in secret that their mom _still_ doesn’t know about, but the river runs had been what she’d begun and ended her days with. She’s out of practice now. Her lungs tear on every other step.

 _Archie and Grundy were at Sweetwater River on July the Fourth_. Air rasps in her lungs. _Archie and Grundy were here together. Archie and Grundy are together. Together. Together._

Sweetwater River connects Greendale and Riverdale, and—a little further north—the US to Canada. Riverdale is on a funny little lip on the Canada side, something that’s still US territory but only just barely. Betty could cross over the border in the woods without realizing. It’s why Riverdale was so popular in the twenties for gangsters; smuggling Canadian whiskey over the border was much simpler if you had a secret compartment in your car and you could get in ten trips a day. From her house, she has to walk forty minutes—jog thirty or so—to get to the river, but once she does, it’s all just open woods on either side. One of Mayor McCoy’s first ordinances as Mayor had been to rezone the woods as a national park, so no one can build any lake houses. It makes it feel like Riverdale is still a slice of wilderness, and Betty _loves_ it. She breaks out of the treeline and onto the shore and the sun is casting long golden fingers over the deep darkness of the Sweetwater, and she takes a full breath of air—water, moss, coldness, life—and _feels._

_Grundy is abusing my best friend and I didn't even notice it start._

She runs for two miles up along the river, towards Thornhill, before she turns around. School starts at eight, and she’ll need to shower before she gets to school, but she needed the run; she needed to think, to ease the turmoil in her chest. If she sees Archie without running, she’ll break things.

It’s barely six when she gets back to the turn-off that leads to her neighborhood, but her legs are shaking in that delicious way that means she’s pushed too hard and drained all the energy out of her system. Betty takes the last pull of her water bottle, and caps it off again before starting her slow jog back towards the woods. 

There’s a figure by the water. No, not by the water— _in_ the water, standing knee-deep in the river. Betty slows in her run. She thinks, for a moment, it’s Cheryl. White clothes and red hair, curled into a near-fetal position against the rocks. Then they stand, and she sees it—the height, the haircut, the swollen, putrid mass that is his hand sticking out of the sleeve. Jason turns to her, and his face is a blight, puffy with bruises and half-eaten by fish. His eyes are gone. There are only empty holes. Around her neck, the cross—which, after its three days and nights in a bucket of salt, felt no more harmful than a scrap of aluminum foil—chills down to ice.

Betty does not scream. This is no worse, she thinks, than her nightmares. She takes a shaking breath, and wishes— _longs_ —for a taser, a weapon, anything. “Jason,” she says, and his lips part. He’d been a beautiful boy, she thinks. A beautiful, beautiful boy. And now he’s a ruin, beaten to death and eaten away by the creatures of the river. “Are—are you real?”

Jason opens and closes his mouth. His voice comes through clean, though it shouldn’t, with his trachea gnawed away. She can see the bones of his throat as he speaks, the flex of muscles and shredded vocal cords. “Lilibet.”

“Only my sister calls me that,” says Betty, and puts her weight on her back foot to better sprint away if the thing moves. A ghost, she thinks. It must be a ghost. It doesn’t feel like a hallucination. Not that she’ll remember this if it is. “What do you want?”

Jason’s mouth doesn’t move in concert with his voice. He says, “Polly.”

“Polly’s not here,” says Betty. She crouches to put her water bottle down. She’s not sure, but she thinks—she knows Jason won’t hurt her. The air is cold and clammy against her skin all of a sudden, and the sunlight, despite being almost too bright, is no longer warm on her face. Like the whole world has fallen away to only a dead boy standing in the Sweetwater. “What is it you want, Jason?”

Jason turns his face towards the Greendale side of the river. He doesn’t move.

“Jason,” says Betty, and takes a step forward, and then another. The toes of her running shoes are brushing against the edge of the water. “Ghosts want something, right? That's why you stick around? So what do you want?”

He doesn’t speak. A cloud passes over the sun, cutting off the bright morning. In the new grey light, Betty can see the exit of the bullet wound out the back of Jason’s pretty red head of hair. In the distance, she can hear a soft, humming song. _Oh, Polly, pretty Polly, your guess is just right…I dug on your grave the biggest part of last night_ …

“Is that you?” says Betty, and Jason turns back to her. “Are you singing that?”

“ _Oh, he led her over mountains, and valleys so deep_ —” She’s never heard Jason sing before, and she didn’t think in life it was like this; this inverted wreck of a voice, half sob, half scream. “ _He led her over hills and valleys so deep_ —”

“Leave my sister alone, Jason—”

“ _Pretty Polly mistrusted and then began to weep_ —”

“If you touch her—”

“Polly,” says Jason. It gurgles. The sun is coming back out from behind the curtain. “She knows.”

“Polly knows what, Jason?”

“Polly knows what’s in that house,” he says, and then he dissolves, as if he’s a fragile figurine of sand, blown away in the breeze. Betty stands there with water up around her ankles—she can’t remember wading deeper in, but the water bites—as the forest air blows hard around her shoulders, pushing her deeper into the river.

She walks home. Her knees are shaking too badly for her to run anymore. 

.

.

.

“So it's redheads, huh?”

Betty, in the middle of her stretch, blinks. Veronica’s in the middle of the splits next to her, leaning forward on her elbows and grinning like a Cheshire cat. Her nails are fresh-painted today; they’re a near-vile red, something that looks wonderful in a bottle but on Betty would make it look as though her hands were dipped in blood. It takes her a minute to tear her gaze away from them, after Jason.

“What?” says Betty.

“The red hair,” says Veronica, and darts a significant look towards Cheryl. Betty had been watching her go through the choreo for the homecoming game with Ginger, who’s stuck on one of the leg flares. “Is that what you’re into? Redheads?”

“What?” says Betty again, and then flushes. “Veronica. Oh my god. _No_.”

“I’m not gonna say you have bad taste, B, but good _lord_ you’d think there were better redheads around than Cheryl—”

“ _I’m not interested in Cheryl_ ,” Betty hisses, and hopes to _god_ no one overheard that. “Jesus, Veronica, no. Like—not that I’m not—but no.”

“Not that you’re not what?”

Betty shakes her head, fiercely. Her bisexuality is something she doesn’t talk about at school, and despite Veronica trying her best to make amends with many, many cupcakes, she hasn’t quite come around to trusting her again. Not completely, anyway. Going through what they did with Chuck—that’s not a thing you come out of without some level of confidence in each other. “Cheryl’s a nightmare.”

“Hey, but she’s hot,” says Veronica. When Betty blinks at her again, Veronica sits up straight, and crosses her legs into the lotus position. “I’m not _blind_ , Betty. She’s awful but she’s hot and she’s got _great_ legs.”

“Thank you for noticing,” says Cheryl, breezing past them. “More stretching, less yapping, bitches.”

Betty rolls her eyes.

“Anyway,” says Veronica, once they’ve gone through their stretches and Cheryl is, once again, on the other side of the gym. “You were staring like you’d seen a ghost. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“B.” Veronica arches one brow. “You know that’s not going to fly with me. Come on, tell. Whatever it is, I want to hear. Is it about me? Did she say something nasty again? Did she try to get more about Polly out of you?”

“I haven’t talked to Cheryl since the sticky maple,” says Betty, and grabs her feet, leaning over to put her nose to her kneecaps. Her run this morning is going to make her _jelly_ during practice. Not that she’s anywhere but at the bottom of the pyramid anyway, but she’ll get snapped at, and that’s the last thing she needs on top of everything else. “Just—”

She stops. She can’t say _thinking about Jason._ Even if Cheryl’s on the other side of the room, she’ll hear his name and come running, and that’s _before_ saying _I think I saw his ghost in the river this morning._ Like anyone would believe that.

It hadn't been a hallucination. If it were, she'd have forgotten about it. As it is, she's not sure _what_ it was. Betty's never been one to believe in ghosts, which may sound weird considering how she grew up, the things she can do. But she just—never really thought about it. Her dad is very Catholic, her mom pretending to be so. Betty—Betty isn't sure. 

Until she's sure what it was, she doesn't want to talk about it. 

“I was thinking about Archie,” says Betty.

Veronica looks at her for a long while. Betty has the sinking, hair-raising feeling that she does _not_ believe her; the one eyebrow is still ticked up, and she drums her nails against the floor of the gym. Then she says, “About—y’know—the tutoring?”

Rage surges up Betty’s throat. She swallows it back down, the way she does everything else. Someday, she thinks, it’s going to give her cancer. “Yeah.”

“Same.” Veronica pulls one arm over her head. “Like—I don’t know. My mom and dad aren’t the same age, so I think it took me a minute to, you know, get it. But like—it’s—it’s gross. Right?”

“It’s disgusting,” says Betty flatly. “I was researching last night—”

“Of course you were—”

“And this is what—people like—”

“Harvette Weinstein,” says Veronica, and Betty wrinkles her nose.

“ _Weinstein_ do. They pick on people who are vulnerable, and Archie is—” Trusting, and good, and _lonely_ , and missing his mother, and fighting with his best friend, and in a crossroads with what he wants, and wanting a mentor, and— “vulnerable.”

“Agreed,” says Veronica. She stands, and does a ballet stretch that has one foot flat on the ground, and the other pointed straight at the ceiling, one arm wrapped around her knee. “And Jughead’s all distracted with this _movie theatre_ —”

“Jughead can’t get involved,” says Betty, automatically. “He’s always in trouble with the school. Whenever something happens they say it’s his fault cause his family’s poor and he lives out in the trailer park. It’s not fair, but it’s how it works. If he gets caught looking things up about—Weinstein—then he might get suspended. And besides, there’s—stuff about him you don’t know.”

 _Both_ of Veronica’s eyebrows pop up this time. “Okay, baby B, claws in. I was just saying, it’s a drive-in, they’re like—eighty years out of date and he’s being weird about it.”

Betty shakes her head. “Look, Veronica—I know—I mean, I know you don’t like Jughead much—”

“Who said that?”

“Come on,” says Betty. “I’m not blind. And I heard you two fighting in the hall last Friday.”

Veronica’s lips thin out.

“He’s protective of his friends,” says Betty. “And he doesn’t—have many of us. Plus we’ve known each other since we were like, toddlers. I know he threatened you, and you threatened him back, and everything, but just like—lay off, okay?”

“Message received,” says Veronica, her voice distinctly cooler now. She switches to the other leg. “Anyway. What are you thinking?”

Betty looks at Cheryl. Then she looks at the other Vixens, at Tina and Ginger and Gretchen and everyone else. She leans forward. “I want to check her car.”

Veronica hums.

“Archie thinks she’s perfect,” says Betty. Nausea rolls her guts. “Like—that she’s perfect and that their relationship isn’t—isn’t toxic and disgusting and all her grooming him into thinking that he has to be alone, that he can’t trust anyone but her. Like, I was up until late reading about people like—like Mary Kay Letourneau and Debra Lafave, they _never_ do this just once. Like, this kind of predator—they target multiple boys. And when I looked up—Weinstein—she just kind of appeared out of thin air last year, like I said. _She_ doesn’t exist. She took someone else’s name. And if Archie knew that it wasn’t just him, if he knew this is her—her _preying_ on him and not her wanting him, I think—I think we could get him away from her.”

“Three more minutes, Vixens!” says Cheryl from the front of the room, and Betty gets to her feet to do her final stretches. Veronica, next to her, nods.

“I think we can go a bit further than that,” she says.

“What do you mean?”

Veronica looks up at Cheryl. Then, putting her fingers to her lips, she says, “Come over to the Pembrooke after school.”

“Wh—Veronica—”

“I promise,” says Veronica. “It’ll be worth it, Betty. And if I don’t find anything, I’ll go do whatever crazy plan you’ve cooked up with you, right up to the jail time, I promise. Please?”

Betty wavers. Then: “Okay.”

Veronica grins at her—a feral thing, more a facsimile of a smile than the real thing—before putting an arm around Betty’s shoulders and giving her an odd, tight hug. “That’s the spirit, sister.”

In spite of herself, Betty grins back.

The Pembrooke is the most expensive apartment complex on the North Side, and Betty has only been to it once before now. The _Register_ had some kind of fundraiser that she and Polly had been expected to attend, and they’d rented out the Pembrooke’s honest-to-god ballroom on the first floor to host the thing in. Veronica and her mom live on the third floor, and that’s a much different world. She has to be let up by an honest to god doorman-slash-elevator operator, who Veronica calls _Smithers_ , and the front hall of Veronica and Hermione’s apartment is—is more overwhelmingly expensive than anything Betty’s seen save Thornhill Hall. It’s not ostentatious; it’s understated, but with the sheer and viscous feeling of _quality_ hanging in the air.

“Put your stuff wherever,” says Veronica, and tosses her bag onto the table. She takes off her shoes, and puts on a pair of house slippers. “Do you want a pair?”

“Um, sure.”

The pair Betty gets is navy, softer than anything she’s ever put on her feet, and embroidered across the toes with an intricate silver pattern. It looks like runes. When Betty looks up, Veronica winks at her. “My friend Jorge made them.”

“He made them?”

“Well, stitched them.” She drops her eyes to the slippers. “It’s not real silver, if you’re wondering, just dyed thread. He said the patterns were protective, though, so they might be valuable that way, I guess.”

Betty has no idea what to say to this.

“My room’s that way,” says Veronica, and points down the hall. “But my mom won’t be back for a few hours, she and Mr. Andrews have been working late with construction stuff.”

There’s a tinkle of a bell. A cat—slinky, long-furred and black with beautiful green eyes—leaps up onto the back of the couch. Veronica croons, dropping into Spanish— _pobrecito, mi gatito, cariño, lo siento para mi absencia—_ and kisses the cat’s head soundly before scooping it up into her arms.

“She’s beautiful,” says Betty, and hesitates. “Can I—”

“You can pet him,” says Veronica, and smiles, widely. “His name is Pyewacket.”

“What’s that from?”

“A friend suggested it.” She strokes Pyewacket once, then twice, down the length of his spine—he’s a huge cat, easily the length of Veronica’s torso—before putting him on the floor. He goes darting off into the shadows of the apartment, bell tinkling as he vanishes. “Come on. We should do this in my room. Mami will be cross if she catches me doing this out in the den.”

“Doing what?”

Veronica laughs. “It’s a surprise.”

“Veronica—”

“I have some to get some stuff ready, make a few calls,” says Veronica. “Help yourself to food, I’ll let you know when we’re good to go. Oh—can you get ahold of Kevin and see if he can find Grundy’s address and birthdate in the school records? And maybe get a picture of her somewhere. We have a printer if you need it.”

“A picture? What does that have to do with anything?”

“You’ll see,” says Veronica, mysteriously, and sweeps away towards her room, leaving Betty alone in a den that her mother would murder her for even imagining.

Kevin’s still at school, waiting for his dad to pick him up for some rotary club event, so it’s not that hard to get Grundy’s information, though the number of questions he asks through the process means she owes him eight million favors after this—whatever it is—is over. Betty prints the photograph—something from a performance Grundy had done with a quartet, an awkward shot of her playing cello, but one that shows her face clearly nonetheless—and sets it up in even rows with her notebook and pencil, before crossing her legs and settling on the couch to wait. Pyewacket reemerges after a while, and throws his great weight across her thighs for pets; long black hairs come off and stick to her skirt, her clean sweater. Her mother will throw a fit. Betty rubs the cat’s belly, gently, crooning to him, for a good ten minutes before Veronica comes back out again.

“Ta-da!” says Veronica, and does a little spin in her house slippers. “You got everything?”

“Yeah.”

“Come into my bedroom, said the spider to the fly,” says Veronica, and Pyewacket leaps from the couch to follow her. Betty gathers her things, and trails down the hall after the pair of them.

Veronica’s room is surprisingly light, airy; she has fairy lights strung along the wall, casting a delicate red glow over the room, and her bedspread is white and perfectly clean despite her black cat. Her clothes are put away, and black-out curtains are drawn tight across the windows. Instead of making it feel too-warm, too-close, it just makes it—well, like a den, almost. Or a dry cave, hidden from everything. Comfortable and soft under her feet. Only the makeup table is a disaster, mascara, eyeliner, lipstick, foundation, and everything else under the sun scattered everywhere, as if she’s upended the entire box of her things all over the top of it. On the floor, someone’s laid a black blanket, and set up a little table like you use to put your computer on while you’re lying in bed. A thick black candle—it looks homemade, or at least off Etsy—squats in the center of the table. Veronica finds a match, strikes it against the edge of the table, and lights the candle.

“Sit,” says Veronica.

Betty sits. Pyewacket leaps up onto the end of the bed, and curls his tail around his paws. The candlelight flickers in odd patterns against his eyes. She has the sense, in that moment, that if she looks into Pyewacket’s eyes too long, she won’t come out again.

“What is this?” says Betty. Veronica folds herself onto the blanket opposite, crossing her legs and pushing the candle a little off-center, so the notebook can take up the center space.

“You said you couldn’t find anything on Grundy from before last year,” says Veronica, and budges the candle over. “Do you have her birth date?”

“July thirty-first, 1982.”

Veronica’s nose wrinkles. “So she’s like…older than we thought.”

Betty’s gut leaps up again. She swallows it down. “She’s thirty-six. What does it matter?”

“And a Leo,” says Veronica. “Figures.”

“If that’s even her real birthday. Veronica—”

“It’s real.”

Betty stops. “You can’t know—”

“I can,” says Veronica, and finds her phone. “Can you give me just a second?”

“Veronica—”

“Ah,” says Veronica, and puts up one perfectly manicured finger. She does not look up from the screen of her phone. “Hold thine horses, Valkyrie Queen. I’m trying to help, I promise.”

Betty shuts her mouth, and waits.

It takes a second for Veronica to maneuver through her phone to what she wants. Finally, she hits call, and puts her phone to her ear, crossing her arm over her stomach, tap-tap-tapping away with her nails against the top of her little table. The candle flickers with every echo.

“Jorge,” she says, as whoever it is picks up the phone. “Cariño, como estás?” She pauses. “No, nada así, corazón. Un segundo _—_ ”

She gives Betty a _look_. “Sorry,” she says, in English. “But this is not for sensitive ears.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” says Betty, but she puts her fingers in her ears anyway. She can still hear the soft murmur of Veronica’s Spanish—she’s taken Spanish since she was six, on her mom’s orders—but she can’t make out specific words. Veronica has her head down, keeping her voice soft. Whoever this guy Jorge is, Betty thinks, Veronica’s known him a while. There’s a kind of posture to her stance that she doesn’t have in Riverdale. Like in yoga, when you’re told to _lengthen your spine, head over heart over pelvis_. Like she’s in her element again. Veronica, Betty thinks, is still adjusting. And god, what a time for someone to move to a town like Riverdale. _Murders and rapists and conspiracies, oh my._

“Eres el major, Jorge,” says Veronica, and then snaps her fingers. Betty unplugs her ears, and when Veronica makes a scribbling motion in the area, she scrambles to hand over her pen and paper. “La próxima ves que vengas, deberíamos ir a ver Dorian juntos.”

“Who’s Dorian?” says Betty, incapable of shutting up. Veronica glares.

“No, no he ido a verlos todavía.” Veronica sighs. “No estoy planeando en verlos. Ya tú sabes lo que pasó con mi papá.” Another pause. “Jorge. Prefiero comerme vidrio que habar con las hermanas, ya tú sabes eso.”

“Literally what is happening,” says Betty, and Veronica makes a _yap yap yap_ gesture with her fingers.

“De todos modos, te llamo mañana, okay? Te lo prometo. Te quiero.” She kisses down the line, and then hangs up the phone. “There. You see? You just have to ask people nicely, and things happen.”

“Oh my god,” says Betty, as Veronica stows her phone back into her purse. “Did you just call the _Mafia_?”

“Oh, please.” Veronica snorts, and leans sideways to pull a little box out from underneath her bed. She opens it so Betty can’t see the interior, and starts rummaging around. “ _Nothing_ so crass, Betty. And _no_ , before you ask, I didn’t call my parents, either. I just—reached out to someone who owes me a favor.”

Betty looks down at the paper. There, in Veronica’s neat numerical script, reads _02:38._ She stops. “Literally what does _that_ have to do with—”

“No more questions,” says V. She snaps the box shut, and kicks it back under the bed. “You said you’d help me with my way first. If this doesn’t work, we can go break into Grundy’s house or whatever it was you were planning on doing before I dragged you over here, okay? I promise. And I don’t know what Jughead has told you—”

“He hasn’t said anything about you,” says Betty. “At all, actually.”

Veronica’s eyes go wide. She looks at Pyewacket, just for a moment. “Oh.”

“I don’t know what you’re scared of, but—”

“I’m not scared,” says Veronica. “I’m—look." She rubs the space between her eyebrow. "Shit. I thought he said something to you."

"Well, he didn't."

Veronica looks to Pyewacket again. Then she says, "I know that this is weird. But for right now, I just—I need you to trust me.” Her eyes, in the darkness of her room, are like obsidian mirrors. “And I know that’s a lot to ask of you. But I swear, I’m trying to help.”

It’s stupid. It’s phenomenally stupid, to think that—that a candle and a cat sitting in the dark could help. But she saw a ghost this morning, and honestly, she’s too _goddamn tired_ of fighting with Veronica to push back on this. Betty takes a breath, and lets it out, and curls her hands around her knees.

“Okay,” she says, simply.

Veronica doesn’t clap her hands, or wiggle in her seat. She looks at Betty for a long, long time, her eyes gleaming like Pyewacket’s. Without a word, she settles again, and lifts her hands so they’re settled over the notebook. The thing she’d pulled from the box was—Betty blinks. It’s a string, tied close around the end of a stubby little pencil.

Betty lifts one eyebrow.

“Trust me,” says Veronica, and then shuts her eyes and begins to twirl the string. It’s gentle, whispering the tip of the pencil back and forth across the paper but not enough to leave a mark, and as she does it, she begins to whisper something that Betty cannot hear. On the bed, Pyewacket settles on all fours, his tail lashing back and forth and stirring the air.

Settled on the floor, still rocking the pencil in gentle circles, Veronica begins to hum. Betty doesn’t recognize it. It’s a soft, lilting song. Veronica doesn’t open her eyes. She hums, and as she hums she swings the pencil back and forth as if it’s a guillotine, but still in a cyclical pattern, north, south, east, west, northeast, southeast, southwest, northwest, again and again and again. It’s hypnotic. Betty watches, and sways, in spite of herself, in small, erratic circles.

She feels—something. Something swelling from the floor, up into her hands, pounding through her blood like—like hysteria. Like home. Like how she feels after her hallucinations. Betty closes her eyes, and the flicker of the candlelight gleams through them, like a butterfly’s wing, like a light in the distance.

“Hold it with me,” says Veronica. “Think what you want to have answered, but don’t say it.”

 _Grundy_ , Betty tells herself. _This is to get Archie away from Grundy._ She reaches out, and cups Veronica’s hands, and holds them. Her eyes drift closed. _We need to know who she is so we can prove that she’s taking advantage. We need to know what she’s hiding._

Veronica’s hands are warm.

“Repeat after me,” says Veronica. “Say it as I say it.”

Betty nods. She doesn’t open her eyes.

“ _Mistress Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?_ ” Veronica squeezes Betty’s fingers. “ _With pretty boys and human toys and secrets for us to know—_ ”

Her tongue is heavy. There’s a heat coming from Veronica’s fingers into her own. The leaping in her stomach is not fear. The burning in her limbs is not terror. She is writhing in her own skin, but it is good, it is clean, it is beautiful, it is dark, and her mouth opens and the words pour out, “ _Mistress Mary, quite contrary—”_

Veronica echoes, and the string twined between their hands grows hot, so hot, she thinks it may burn, but it doesn’t hurt, it simply is, it is warmth and it is chaos and it is light and it is everything she could have wanted—

“— _how does your garden grow? With—_ ”

_“—pretty boys—”_

_“—and human toys—”_

_“—and secrets for us to know—_ " 

Again, and they speak as one this time, and she feels as though Veronica is in her skin, as though she is in Veronica’s, and there is wind picking up around them, the candle is flickering low, and she still has not opened her eyes but it echoes, echoes, echoes as the pencil spins and spins and spins—“ _Mistress Mary quite contrary how does your garden grow with pretty boys and human toys and secrets—_ ”

“ _July thirty-first_ —” says Veronica—

“ _—for us_ —”

“ _Nineteen-eighty-two_ —”

“— _to_ —”

“ _Two-thirty-eight_ —”

“— _know_ —”

The light goes out.

Betty’s hands are shaking. She doesn’t move. Against her throat, the cross is burning white hot, stinging against her clothes as Veronica lights the match again, puts it to the wick of the candle. Her hair is messy, as if she’s been through a gale, and Pyewacket is in her lap. Betty realizes she’s still holding the pencil, and drops it. The string is cold, now, and no longer living, no longer trembling in her hands, but she could swear—

“Look,” says Veronica, in a hoarse voice.

Betty does. She is too numb with shock not to. She looks down at the notebook, and realizes that the page is full. It is full, lines and lines of information in a handwriting that is neither hers nor Veronica’s, a handwriting that Betty does not recognize but somehow knows, instinctively, who it belongs to—

“ _Jennifer Mary Molyneux_ ,” says Veronica. Her eyebrows click together. “I knew Grundy was a fake name, but look, _Geraldine Grundy_ is here too—”

“What—”

“And another, _Jennifer Gibson_ , that must be another alias—”

“Veronica—”

“Betty," says Veronica, and turns the notebook for her to see. She touches her finger to the page. “I think these must be students.”

Betty looks. She looks and looks, as if she is looking on a monster. There are thirteen names, she can count that high even in this state, and she does not know these names but she knows these schools, _Seaside High, Centreville High, Baxter,_ name after name after name, and at the bottom—

_Jason Blossom, 16, Riverdale High School_

_Benjamin Button, 14, Riverdale High School_

_Archibald Andrews, 15, Riverdale High School_

“How did we get this,” says Betty, in a shaking voice, and Veronica looks up at her.

“Betty—”

“ _How did we do this_ —”

“I told you, sometimes this works—”

“This isn’t real,” says Betty, and stands up. She upends the table, and the candle. Wax hits the rug. “This isn’t real, this is a hallucination, this isn’t _real_ —”

“Betty—”

The black out curtains begin to flutter, flicker, rattle—

“ _What is happening_ ,” Betty says, and then there is—

A cool hand—

Back of her neck—

A voice—

 _Sleep_.

She does.


	5. Interlude: Hilda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hilda dies, and talks to someone she's not seen in sixteen years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> w o r l d b u i l d i n g.
> 
> For those of you who have not seen Chilling Adventures of Sabrina: please watch the first two seasons cause I love it to bits. 
> 
> But also: The Cain Pit is a piece of land on the Spellman Mortuary Property that can bring dead Spellmans back to life; Zelda regularly just straight up Murders Hilda when she gets annoyed; Edward is Sabrina's father and wrote a treatise on how the Church of Night (essentially Witch Catholicism) should be completely transformed; and he and Sabrina's mother were killed in a plane crash like three days after Sabrina was born.

The sixty-fifth time she’s murdered by her sister, Hilda Spellman is caught unawares.

To be fair, she’s usually caught unawares when Zelda kills her. Zelda’s good at bottling everything up until it explodes, however dramatic she can be. That being said, she also usually knows what she did to anger her sister enough to the point of murder. This time, she wakes up to a pillow in her face and her lungs shriveling for lack of air, and she has no idea _what_ she did this time.

Being dead is always a strange experience. It’s happened so many times at this point that it’s become a little old hat, but the transition—from one plane to another, from being a living witch to a dead one, free of hell and leery of heaven—means she wanders in witch limbo until the magic of the Cain Pit pulls her soul back to her body. She’s fairly sure this is why she fears death so much less than all the others in the Church of Night. She’s been here. She knows the ins and outs of the place. She knows where the Soul-Eaters lurk, she knows how to exist, and she knows how to keep hold of herself. This is the _sixty-fifth trip_. If she didn’t know how to keep hold of her own mind, her own memories, in limbo by now, she’d be a shameful sort of witch. 

So truly, the most that happens to Hilda when Zelda murders her is that she wakes up in Witch Limbo, scoffs, and says, “For heaven’s _sake_.” The cool mist of Witch Limbo tickles at her limbs as she gets up, brushes dust from her frock. “ _Zelda_.”

Zelda, of course, does not answer. Zelda’s a fertility specialist. She’s never been able to wander Limbo, even in her dreams. Ambrose is the necromancer out of the lot of them, and even he stays away from Limbo. _Too much risk of bringing back nasties, Auntie. Best to stay clear unless you can’t help it._

“ _You’re_ not the one with a sister who murders you when she’s cross,” says Hilda to nothing and no one. It helps her keep hold of her own sense, the talking to herself. A few yards away, a handful of shades turn to face her, watching. She still has that new-death look, the gleam of life on her, fading quickly but there all the same; she’s going to be a curiosity to a lot of the shades until the Cain Pit starts to take effect and drags her back to life.

Hilda huffs—Zelda killed her in her _nightgown_ , not even having the decency to let her put on _shoes_ this time—and stomps off to the east. She has no clue where she is, but everything in Limbo changes all the time anyway. It’s a world of mist. Things blow about with the air. 

Time moves differently here. Hilda’s never sure how long she’s going to be in Limbo; she simply knows how it feels, as if years are compressed into moments, as if a single step can take an age. Limbo is smooth and grey, the air pressing in close around her, figures flickering through the mist, coming close enough to brush against the sleeve of her nightgown. She knows, if she reaches out to touch them, they will be out of reach. She’s always done her best not to speak to the shades. She’s lived long enough that she knows too many of these faces; too many of them lost to the coven and to time, taken before they were meant. Witches are spared hell through signing the Book of the Beast, but there is no heaven for them, either; they have nowhere else to go but here, this endless, grey, misty, dusty, empty place, all skeletal trees and lonely roads that lead to nowhere. If a witch’s shade remains long enough, she’ll disintegrate to ash, and this is what coats her feet now. It never lingers—that, at least, is one blessing—but the smooth grit works its way onto the tops of her feet, up her legs, over her tongue, up her nose, in her eyes, until tears stream down her dirty cheeks.

She stays on the path. It’s easier, when she’s pulled back, if she stays on the path. The magic works faster. Hilda walks and walks until she finds a decent dead tree, and then she sits and leans her back against the rusty, brittle bark. It cracks under her weight, but the tree itself remains strong, even if the ash of long-dead witches swells in waves over the roots. Her magic is strange and distant here, and it’s safer not to use it. Soul-Eaters come running at a single sparking spell.

“Hilda,” says a voice, and Hilda looks up before scrambling to her feet in witch-ash.

She saw her parents, once. Here in Limbo. Lydia and Eustace Spellman. It’s been so long since they died that Hilda had almost forgotten their faces, warped with age as they were. She’s never once seen her brother Edward. He looks just as he did the last she saw him, leaving with Diana for his meeting with the Anti-Pope beneath the Vatican. Dark clothes, dark beard, dark eyes. Ash whispers around his trousers, catching at him with long, gnarling fingers.

He hasn’t lost his form, she thinks. In sixteen years. He’s held on.

“Edward,” says Hilda. Her vision is blurring. She wants to touch him, but one brush of her finger might shatter his control. Spirits need so much focus to retain a form with no summons from a living soul; he must have been gathering all his power just for this. “I must have called you a thousand times, you never came—”

“I don’t have any time,” says Edward. “And nor do you, sister.”

“Nonsense, I have so much to tell you about Sabrina—”

Edward’s face contorts in pain. He says, “Don’t speak her name here, Hilda. It will draw too much attention from—from those who mean her harm.”

Hilda stops, and looks at her brother again. It _is_ Edward, she’s certain of that. No spirit or ghoul could take his form so well as to fool her, even if they’d managed to pick through her mind on her journey to Limbo. She says, “Who—who would mean her harm, Edward, she’s only a child—”

“Hilda,” he says, and he reaches out with two hands that cannot quite hold their shape properly. When he grips her by the shoulders, he leaves smears of ash on the sleeves of her nightdress. “You know I finished my manifesto the day before Sabrina’s birth, sister, you _know_ I traveled to meet with the Anti-Pope—”

“What has this to do with—”

“You must _listen to me,_ Hilda,” says Edward, and he shakes her. “Listen. Remember. _Please._ ”

She bites her tongue.

“There are those who thought my manifesto a sacrilege,” says Edward. “I shared it with few, to keep Diana and you and Zelda and Ambrose safe. But it was still found out, and I was killed—”

“ _Killed_ —”

“You have to _listen_.”

She shuts up. When Edward’s in a strop, there’s nothing to do but hear him out before talking him back to sense.

“First,” says Edward, and in the distance, a Soul-Eater looms. It writhes, long tentacles and talons and eyes. _Edward,_ she thinks. The focus he’s using to keep his form must be drawing it to them. “First: As Mortals are the God-Spawn of the Earth, so Witches are the Hell-Spawn. They share a common home and Destiny—”

“Edward,” says Hilda, “for goodness sake, lower your voice—”

“Second,” he says, ever more loudly, “not only may Witch-Kind lay with, love with, and live amongst the mortals, it is their Sacred Prerogative—”

“ _Edward_ —”

“I was not the only one to think this, Hilda—”

Something hooks behind her belly, pulling. The Cain Pit. _Of all the blasted times_ — “Edward, what are you trying to say—”

“Mortimer,” says Edward. “Our cousin—”

“Morty?” Little Morty? Centuries younger and always a sycophant, following Edward around the Academy like a puppy Morty? Morty, who’d been killed by witchhunters over a decade ago? “What—”

“He espoused my creed, Hilda,” says Edward. “He fathered a child.”

Hilda opens her mouth, and closes it.

“You have to find her, Hilda.” He’s falling away into ash, now. Webbing cracks spread from the corners of his lips, up his dear face to his eyes, across his nose. His skin is turning grey. “She is not far from you now, and near sixteen, near the birth of her witchhood—”

“I don’t—”

“You must find her before she is—”

A taloned tentacle lashes out of the mist, coils around his ashen belly, and the shade of Edward Spellman shatters into nothing but dust.

Hilda is screaming as she falls back into her body in the Cain Pit.


	6. Wicked Natures, Wicked Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Betty's missing time. Veronica's straight up missing. Jughead is losing more than people realize. Archie's just lost. 
> 
> [Part Two of Chapter Four. Overlaps with Chapter Four: The Last Picture Show.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: lots of references to Grundy and child molestation, due to the fact that she is STRAIGHT UP MOLESTING HIM and I HATE that they danced around that in canon. 
> 
> also cw: for an illness with symptoms of food poisoning, lost time/the panic associated with lost time, and references to drugs/heroin use.

“What were you thinking, bringing her here?”

“Mami—”

“You know who her family is—”

“She’s not like that—”

“You were doing a _spell of past dealings_ with her? What possessed you—”

“I told you—”

“I don’t want her in this house again, Veronica, look what she’s wearing—”

“ _Betty isn’t like that_ , Mami—”

“ _Listen to me._ Your father is in a cell because his risky behavior nearly exposed us. All of us. And I will _not_ have you going down that same path. Do you understand me?”

“Mami—”

“ _Do you understand me_?”

“…yes.”

“I’m taking her home. I don’t want her in this house again, are we clear?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Now clean this up. And for goodness sake, open your curtains. It’s like a cave in here.”

.

.

.

When Betty wakes up, she feels like death.

That sounds like an exaggeration, but Betty is fairly certain that even in the depths of her worst reactions to the anti-psychotics she had to take in middle school, or when she caught pneumonia and mono in the same year, she has _never_ felt this terrible. Her head is splitting right down the middle, and even the concept of opening her eyes makes her whole body throb. The buzz of her cell phone against her bedside table—her six AM alarm—somehow vibrates through her whole body. Her tongue is numb and raw at once, swelling up in her mouth. Her _bones_ ache.

“Mom,” she says, when Alice stalks by her bedroom door, the way she does every morning, to make sure Betty is on her feet and getting ready to go. “I think I’m sick.”

Alice gives her a look that Betty can barely make out through her swimmy eyes. The touch of her mother’s hand on her forehead is _cold_ , like a block of ice against her pounding head. Betty hisses through her teeth—she can’t help it—and shuts her eyes again. “No fever,” says Alice after a moment. “Betty. I’ve told you that staying up too late isn’t an excuse to skip school—”

“Mom—”

“Don’t think I didn’t hear you at four in the morning, young lady.” Alice draws her hand away, and Betty almost vomits. Her head has _never_ hurt so bad. “Get up. You’re going to school.”

“I have a migraine.” She pauses. She has that nagging sense that she’s forgetting something, but for the life of her, she can’t imagine what it is. “And—and I wasn’t up at four in the morning.”

“Uh-huh,” says Alice. “Try again, Elizabeth. I saw your light on. Now—coffee and Tylenol for the migraine. And don’t forget your Adderall. You did yesterday.”

Betty throws up twice in the bathroom—it’s a miracle she makes it there; standing almost knocked her sideways—and dumps her Adderall pill down the toilet. She takes a particular kind of vicious pleasure in flushing it away with the rest of her puke.

Showering helps. It’s something about the running water and the steam that eases some of the pressure in her head, she thinks, though she does throw up again _in_ the shower (which is gross, and something that’s never happened even in the depths of her worst nightmares).

She can't remember how she got home yesterday. More than that: she can't remember _most of yesterday_. She mechanically soaps up in the shower, washes her hair. She finds no bump on her head, nothing to explain her loss of memory. She _can't remember where she went after school yesterday_ , and she can't stop her heart racing. She feels dizzy. She _doesn't know what she did_.

Betty gives herself ninety seconds to gasp in panic. Then she forces her mask back on her face, towels her hair dry, and says to her reflection in the mirror: "Everything is perfect."

The rings under her eyes speak to the lie. 

The headache peels its claws away from her skull just long enough for her to catch her breath on the walk to school, and she lies to herself in thinking she can make it through the day. The moment Riverdale High comes into sight, though, she throws up again, this time into a rosebush on someone’s front lawn. Nobody sees. It’s too early. Betty just about cries.

“Hey,” says Jughead, as she starts up the steps. He’s sitting on the front stairs of the school, legs jumping like someone’s tweaking a marionette’s strings. He looks like he hasn’t slept well, either. There are deep rings under his eyes. “Can we—” He stops. “Are you okay? You look like hell.”

“I have a migraine,” says Betty, in a voice that comes out half-numb. It seems like such a small thing to say. _I have a migraine. I’ve thrown up five times easy. My bones feel like they’re melting._ _I can't remember when I came home last night._ Maybe she _had_ been drinking. Maybe that's why she can't remember. “What is it?”

“Sit,” says Jughead. He takes her bag before she can stop him, and the worry in her face makes her wonder what, exactly, he’s seeing. Something her mom didn’t see, apparently. “I’m gonna get the nurse.”

“I’m fine, Jughead.”

“You’re not fine,” he says. He puts the back of his hand to her brow, and the shock of warm skin almost has her falling over. Jughead has never been a very touchy person. She can’t count the number of times he’s hitched his shoulders up at touching another human being, even someone like Archie or Mr. Andrews. In all this time, she’s forgotten he runs hot, even on chilly days like this one. _That or you have a fever, Betty Cooper, and everything feels cold right now_. “Did you shower?”

“What does that matter?”

“Sometimes it helps headaches,” he says, but his eyes skitter away from her. “Did you?”

“Yeah.” She swallows, and presses the back of her hand to her mouth. The sense that she’s forgotten something important is stronger now. Maybe, she thinks—maybe if her hallucinations have expanded to movement, actions, speech, if Veronica is right and she _did_ call Chuck Jason, then maybe she—maybe she’s lost time. Maybe she did something, and she doesn’t even know it. Dread creeps in, slow and deadly. “It—it was worse before. But—I don’t know.”

She sways, back and forth on her feet. Jughead hesitates, and then he hitches her own bag over his shoulder, and grips her elbow in one hand. “Come on,” he says. “Blue and Gold office. It’s quieter in there.”

And darker. And there’s a couch. Betty nods, pressing her lips tight together, and lets him guide her through the halls.

It’s early, still. Not many students are in the halls, but there are enough that the echoes of slamming lockers and shouting voices make her skin twitch, as if she’s been snapped with static. She’s supposed to be here for River Vixen practice, but she has a feeling that if she tries to do a handstand she will literally collapse. Potentially throw up on Cheryl. The image, albeit disgusting, is kind of hilarious. Jughead finds the keys to the Blue & Gold offices in her jacket pocket, and unlocks the door, guiding her to the couch before dropping both their bags on the floor. “Watch my stuff. I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Jug, I’m okay, you don’t have to—”

“Stay,” he says, and then he’s gone. Betty sits, back curving, on the couch. Then—slowly, because any fast movement feels like a stake through the head right now—she leans sideways onto the couch, and drags her jacket over her head. Being in the dark is easier. Being in the dark makes her eyes feel less like bags of broken glass.

She squeezes her eyes closed, and breathes in counts of twelve.

The school nurse, Ms. Cameron, doesn’t come in until eight, so Jughead returns about fifteen minutes later with tea he’s scrounged from—somewhere—“they keep it in the teacher’s lounge,” he says, and Betty does _not_ ask how he managed to get in there—and more Tylenol. She takes it—no point in being worried about her liver right now, if she’s going fucking _psycho_ —and tries to keep the tea down. Something about it tastes like a forest, she thinks. Fresh greens and floral scents. Jughead leans back against one of the desks, arms crossed tight over his chest, and watches her drink it with his eyebrows plastered together. He looks, she thinks, like he’s ready to murder someone.

“Jughead,” she says, after she manages to keep the fifth sip of tea down. (She’s counting in sips, right now.) “I’m okay.”

Jughead’s eyes snap to her, and then away. His arms tighten across his chest as he says, “You should be at home.”

“Yeah, well, my mom—probably thinks I’m hungover or something.” Betty blows on the steamy tea, and takes another, more daring swallow. “This is good.”

“You never drink,” says Jughead.

“Tell my mom that,” she says. “She about had me take a breathalyzer after the semi-formal.” She takes another sip of the tea. “What kind of tea is this?”

“I think the box said ginger?”

It doesn’t taste like ginger, but she’s also thrown up four times in two hours. Who knows what her tastebuds are doing right now. Betty curls her fingers close around the mug. “Thanks, Juggie.”

He looks away again, and rubs his thumb against the end of his nose. “I still think you should go home and rest. You seriously look like Frankenstein’s monster right now.”

“Thanks,” says Betty sourly. “Anyway, I can’t. My mom will kill me.”

“Mama Cooper,” says Jughead under his breath. He looks at her. “Do you think it’s food poisoning?”

“I’ve never had food poisoning, I don’t know.”

“Hm,” says Jughead.

“I was throwing up earlier though, so maybe.” She frowns. “I don’t _think_ I ate anything weird. I was here at school and then I was at practice with Veronica—”

 _You can pet him,_ Veronica says in her head. _His name is Pyewacket._

All at once, the headache spikes. Betty closes her eyes until it passes, and curls her fingers tighter around the mug of tea, breathing in the steam. There are stones in her head she can’t chip through. For a moment, she has a vague sense something important is on the other side. Then, slowly, it fades, along with the pain. She can breathe again.

“I had Vixens practice after school and then I—went home,” she says. Betty pulls her jacket closer around herself. She’s freezing. The tea, she thinks, is the only warm thing in the room. “But I didn’t eat anything I hadn’t eaten before I don’t think.”

Jughead says, “I thought you went to Veronica’s yesterday?”

“No, I didn’t,” says Betty, her head aching. “What made you think that?”

Jughead’s lips thin out. He says, “Thought I saw you leaving together.”

“Oh.” _Veronica._ She clutches at that. Whatever she can and can’t remember, _Veronica_ will know something. She texts her. _V—can we talk?_ “Right.”

“Seriously, are you okay?” He looks torn, for a second, as if he wants to check her temperature again. Jughead fidgets. “Like—you’re _you,_ but if I didn’t know you I’d say you were coming off some kind of—of binge right now.”

“That’s definitely what my mom thinks.” She makes herself swallow. “I think it’s just food poisoning. I must have eaten something weird for dinner.” Not that she can remember what she ate for dinner. “No good asking my mom if she feels sick, though, she’ll just think I’m faking still.”

“You don’t _fake_ things,” says Jughead, testily, and she almost sighs. She’d been right when she’d told Veronica that Jughead was protective, but—

Her phone buzzes. ♕V♕: _Sorry B, staying home today. Don’t feel great_.

She texts back, _Vomiting and headache? Cause if so, same. Did we eat something weird??_

♕V♕: _Nah, my period just has the worst timing and I want to make it to the Twilight tonight so I’m taking the day. See you then! xoxo_

“Great,” says Betty. Though—if Veronica’s not actively avoiding her, and _does_ have her period today, then maybe she didn’t do anything really…weird, during her blackout. She’s pretty sure Veronica would have said something, if she had. “That’s…great.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” She stows her phone back in her pocket. “Seems like Veronica’s sick, too.”

Jughead flicks his head to get his hair out of his eyes, and doesn’t say anything.

“What did you want to ask me?” Betty hooks her arms through the sleeves of her jacket, and pulls the cuffs down over her hands. “You said you wanted to do something?”

“Oh,” says Jughead, and his tense shoulders ease, just a little bit. He’s still not quite looking at her, but it’s less painful to look at him, a wound-up knot of a boy leaning against her editor’s desk. “I wanted to ask if we could—talk about Archie.”

Betty’s not sure she’d have a steady stomach for this conversation even without her migraine. She folds her legs up into a lotus pose from yoga, and leans further back into the couch. “What about Archie?”

He gives her a look.

“Okay, stupid question.” She tips her head back against the cushions of the couch. “What part of it do you want to talk about?”

“Which part is worse?” he says. His voice cracks at the end from the sheer amount of sarcasm he puts into it. “The grooming or the molesting or the denial? Because, news flash, he’s in major denial about it all. He about punched me when I confronted him about it.”

This part, Betty hadn’t heard. “You confronted him?”

He shifts, uneasily. “We were going to go on a road trip on the Fourth. He backed out. And I—saw him with Grundy a few days ago. In the music room.”

Her gorge rises. Betty swallows, over and over, until it eases back again. “God, Jughead, why didn’t you say anything to anyone?”

“He made me promise not to tell you.”

“No, I mean—” Betty swallows again. “I mean the cops, the principal—”

“Since when will they believe me?” His lips twist. “Archie will just deny it anyway. It’s not like he’ll give her up. She’s got him thinking she _understands_ him. He’ll go to hell and back for her and nobody will get what they deserve.”

He’s right. She knows he’s right. She says, “Jughead, are you okay?”

Jughead gives her an odd look. His mouth quirks, crooked as anything, as he says, “Come on, Betty. I’m always okay.”

Something hangs taut in that moment. The sense—the knowledge—that he’s lying. Betty opens her mouth, and closes it again, because in the last few years, when has she been able to get Jughead to talk about his feelings when he doesn’t want to? When has she _ever_ been able to do that? He closes up like a little hermit crab, folding away into a shell, and as long as she’s known him she’s never been able to crack into it. Betty finishes her tea, and sets the mug on the end of the couch, unfolding her legs to put her feet flat on the floor. “I wouldn’t be,” she says, honestly. “And not because I have—feelings. For Archie. It’s—it’s not—good. What you saw.”

His eyes skitter away from her again, faster this time. He bends, and grabs his messenger bag. “Look,” he says, and that’s when she knows she’s pushed too hard again. “I just—wanted to bring it up to see if you were all right, okay? And—you’re fine, so we don’t have to talk about it. I have to go meet with Mr. Andrews this morning anyway—”

“How did you—”

“I kind of pretended I was Mayor McCoy’s new assistant and asked for an appointment,” he says. “I’m skipping first and second period. What are they going to do, expel me? I’m trying to save a piece of town history.”

“Jughead,” she says. “I—”

“Come to the Twilight tonight,” he says, and he looks at her, finally. His eyes dart back and forth over her face. “If you’re not still sick. Please? If—this is really the last night, will you come?”

She stands. Her knees sway a little under her, but she stands, and she reaches out to touch the side of his arm through the heavy jacket and the plaid. He doesn’t flinch away from her, exactly. He twitches, but that’s expected.

“Of course,” says Betty, quietly. “I’ll come. I wouldn’t miss it.”

He looks at her. Then, carefully, he eases back, away from her, enough that her fingers fall off his sleeve. Jughead puts his fingers to his head in a funny little salute, and says, “Feel better, Betty.”

He bolts, and leaves behind the sense that they’d been talking about something much, much different than she’d heard. Betty stands there, rocking a little on her feet, until the first warning bell rings for class.

.

.

.

She has a memory of Jughead from when they were very small, her and him and Archie all together. They’d maybe been seven, and it was still a time when her mother let her see Jughead and Archie without grumbling _too_ loudly. Come to think of it, it might have been before Alice knew that Jughead was a Jones; he was just a neighborhood boy with a funny name back then. It’d been evening, in the summertime, and Jughead and Archie had been running around the Andrews’ backyard chasing after fireflies. Betty had pulled a muscle in her leg trying to do too many cartwheels (she’d just learned in gymnastics, and wanted to show off) so she’d been stuck on the back porch with Mrs. Andrews watching as the boys ran around with old mason jars, frantically trying to capture the luminescent insects.

She’d been almost dozing off in the warm summer air when a closed-off jar (with four fastidious holes poked in the lid) had been settled on the porch next to her, and Jughead had clambered up to sit on the edge of the porch too. She has a very vivid image of band aids on his knees, in her head. They’d been patterned with Disney characters.

“We can share,” he’d said, and began informing her everything he knew about fireflies. Archie had joined them soon after, trying to say they were called lightning bugs and not fireflies, and Betty had listened to them bicker while holding the jar in her hands, watching the bugs clamber up and down the sticks that Jughead had dumped in the jar for them to have something to eat.

“You have to free them eventually,” he’d told her, when his mother had come to take him home. He’d made her pinky swear, which had been very serious business for a seven-year-old. “They’re not meant to live in a jar. Some things you keep and some things you free.”

“I promise,” Betty had said, and she’d freed the bugs later that night, out the window of her room and watching them take flight. 

She thinks of that through class, knowing that Jughead is at Mr. Andrew's office, and wonders if the Twilight is one of those things that Jughead had promised to himself he’d keep.

.

.

.

The nausea eases, for the most part, thanks to the tea. Her headache lingers. It’s not quite a migraine—not anymore, not after she has her third dose of Tylenol of the day and it finally eases back to a bad, but not incapacitating, ache behind her right eyeball—but it’s enough to make her snappy and nasty and reclusive throughout the day. Cheryl gives her holy hell for missing practice that morning, and Ginger catches her eye and grimaces as if to say, _sorry Betty_. It makes Betty’s skull itch.

(She texts Jughead in third period when he doesn’t show up. He doesn’t answer. It says bad things, she thinks, about how his meeting with Mr. Andrews went.)

Nobody at school seems to have seen her yesterday after River Vixen practice. Which means whatever happened was probably either just her—she scrolls through her social media accounts, but can find nothing, no funny posts, no weird selfies—or with her and Veronica, and if Veronica knows, she’s not weirded out by it. Some of the panic is starting to ease by second period, when nobody looks at her funny, when nobody asks her any questions.

Then—of course, because the universe can’t seem to stop shitting on her—her non-mental problems get worse.

“Hey,” Archie says, in the hallway between third and fourth period, catching her without warning in front of the girls’ restroom. “Can we talk for a second?”

Betty looks at him, wide-eyed. She says, “Uh, sure?”

Archie grips her by the arm, and pulls her away from the girls’ room. She’s pretty sure it’s the first time he’s touched her since the semi-formal, and she’s not sure if that’s what’s making it sting. He tugs her down the hall, past the door to the student lounge, and into a quieter corner before saying, “Betty, did you call Kevin last night to ask for information about Ms. Grundy?”

Oh, god. She can’t tell him the truth—that she doesn’t remember—but it—it _sounds_ like something she might have done. The floor opens up beneath her feet. “Did he say something to you?”

“I was in the office,” he says. “I heard you do it. Betty, I _told you to let it be_.”

“Archie—”

“Betty—” He looks over her head, tracking someone passing them in the hall. Reggie. Reggie, thankfully, is talking to Moose, and doesn’t seem to be paying attention. “I’m with her. And I—I know that might be hard for you after—”

“Oh, my god,” says Betty, because this is the _last_ thing her head needs. “Archie, it’s not hard for me because of my stupid crush on you, it’s hard for me because she’s _twice as old as you and she’s molesting you_!”

“She’s _not_ ,” he says, and his eyes—warm, and brown, always her favorite eyes in the world—go suddenly chilly. “I started it, Betty. I _wanted this_.”

“She’s a predator, Archie, she’s done this before—”

“You’re not the one dating her, Betty, you don’t know her—”

“I know she’s thirty-six and you’re _fifteen_!” She keeps her voice down, but it still breaks in her mouth, the words. “This is _wrong_ , Archie, and more than that it’s _illegal_ , and she’s hurting you, even if you can’t see it—”

“She’s the only one who made me feel like she saw me all summer,” says Archie, and that—that’s a jab right to her heart. Betty almost staggers. “She’s the only one who noticed my music, Betty, the only one who’s appreciated it and not told me I’m stupid for dreaming about it. She _saw me_. She’s _not_ a predator. She’s not hurting me. I want her. I want _this_.”

Betty shakes her arm loose, and takes a step back. She steps back again. “Right,” she says. “So—all those times I talked to you this summer, that was just—nothing, then.”

Archie winces. She can see the regret in his face before he opens his mouth. “Betty, that’s not what I meant—”

“No, that’s _exactly_ what you meant.” Her eyes are burning. “You know what, Archie? It’s great to know what you think of me. Honestly, it is. Because I thought it was clear that I’d do _anything_ for you. That you’re my _best friend_ , no matter what—what we are or what we’re not. And you think that I don’t _see you_ or—or _support you_ , and you—you let someone hurt you and turn you against everyone who cares about you because she pretends she _knows you_ —”

“Betty, that’s not—”

“Leave me alone, Archie,” she says, and turns her back on him. “I—I need to be alone right now.”

She walks off down the hallway. Archie does not follow her. This time, she makes it into the nurse’s office, and its accompanying bathroom, before she throws up.

.

.

.

“That _bastard,_ ” says Kevin, and hauls her feet more securely into his lap.

Kevin had come looking for her in the nurse’s office when she hadn’t shown up for fourth period AP Calc. He’s not, technically, supposed to be in here, but Nurse Cameron is pretending he’s not. She’d seen Betty’s red eyes when she’d come out of the bathroom, and everyone knows that Betty Cooper and Kevin Keller are friends. Betty isn’t about to question her luck.

She hasn’t told Kevin the whole truth. She _can’t_. Kevin doesn’t know all the details about Grundy, not yet, but she can say enough. That Archie accused her of being jealous of someone he was seeing, and basically said she didn’t know or care about him. Kevin had turned white, and then scarlet, and then an even deeper scarlet that meant he was _furious_ —really, truly furious, which is something Kevin very rarely is—before sitting on the cot next to her and basically yanking her legs over his lap to pull her into a half hug. Betty has not cried, but it’s a near thing.

“ _Bastard_ ,” he says again, more viciously. “I might not be a fighting man, Betty Cooper, but I want to punch that ginger Judas in his _nose_.”

“No,” says Betty. “Don’t. It’s okay.”

“He’s confused,” says Kevin, and then rests his cheek on Betty’s head. “He’ll work it out, Betty. He’s—he’s a dumbass _boy_.”

“You’re a boy, Kevin.”

“Yes, but I’m Kevin fucking Keller, that makes me _infinitely_ superior.”

“Language,” says Nurse Cameron, and goes back to reviewing her paperwork.

“Sorry,” says Kevin. He does not sound sorry. “Look, Betty. This is—a setback. Archie’s always been kind of an idiot, I just—didn’t want to say it around you ‘cause I know how much you love him—”

“It’s not happening, Kevin,” says Betty, flatly. She closes her eyes. “It’s—I don’t know. It’s just not going to happen.”

“You can still make it happen,” he says. “He’d be stupid not to love you, Betty.”

“Sometimes we don’t get the boys we want,” says Betty. “And—and that boy is Archie for me, I think. I don’t know. Maybe—maybe it wasn’t meant to be.”

Kevin says nothing for a long time. He rubs Betty’s back gently with one hand. Then, softly: “Okay.”

“Okay?” Betty sits up, and looks at him. “That’s _it_?”

“That’s it.”

“What the hell,” she says. “You’re the one who was always pushing at me to ask him out, Kev.”

Kevin sighs. He rubs his hand down his face, long and slow, like he’s facing something he doesn’t particularly like looking at. “Look. As—as hot as Archie is now—”

She smacks him in the chest.

“Abusive,” says Kevin, absently. Then: “I don’t know. I never thought he was good enough for you, Betty. And I—was trying to be as supportive as I could, cause it was what you needed, especially after what happened this summer—” That’s, perhaps, the most delicate way anyone has referred to _Polly and Jason and murder and mayhem and family secrets_ that she’s ever heard; Betty files it away. “—but—but he—I don’t know. It seems like you’ve always had a thing for him. And I wanted to be your friend and help you get him. But he doesn’t—treat you well. Never really has.”

Betty says nothing. She settles back against Kevin’s shoulder.

“Maybe I’m wrong,” says Kevin. “I don’t—know him as well as you do. It’s not like I live right next to him. But—but he’s always seemed pretty good at dropping you like a hot potato as soon as he doesn’t think he needs you. And I hate seeing that happen to my best friend over and over again, because it always makes her cry.”

She sniffles. “Why didn’t you tell me that’s what you really thought?”

Kevin just gives her a _look_ then, a _would you have believed me, you silly bitch_ look. Then: “Well, we have the best option to get over this tonight, and that’s a night on the town with an old drive-in that honestly is covered all over in heroin spoons and needles. Wear your heaviest boots.”

“ _Kevin_.”

“We might as well make the most of it,” he says. “Besides, you’ve had a rough few weeks, girl. You need a hell of a break.”

She does. She really does. Her head aches with what she’s carrying, her shoulders heave under the weight, but for the moment, Betty sets it all aside—the missing time, Veronica, Archie, Jughead, Grundy, Jason’s ghost, Polly missing, the murder, all of it—and lets Kevin hug her.

“Though seriously,” says Kevin, after a moment. “You know that thing you called me about yesterday? I need _all_ the details.”

“Kevin.”

“I’m the sheriff’s son,” he says. “You think I can’t help out with whatever you and Jim Stark are doing in the _Blue & Gold_? Sign me on as a consultant. I’m like Tyrion. I drink and I know things.”

She shoves him. “ _Kevin_!”

“What? I’m not wrong.”

He’s not. And she’d been hoping she could do this without him, because Kevin—Kevin can’t keep secrets well. But she owes him this, she thinks. And an in with Riverdale’s sheriff is far too good to pass up. “Okay.”

“ _Yes_ ,” he says, and snuggles her close to him. “I’m now officially your Bess and George. Oo, does this mean I get to bone your Ned Nickerson? Cause like—Ned’s kind of the perfect damsel in distress. And I’m honestly totally into that.”

“You’re a weirdo,” says Betty fondly.

“This isn’t a hang-out spot,” says Nurse Cameron. “Get out of here before you miss fifth period, Keller.”

“Oops,” says Kevin, and Betty starts to laugh.


	7. The Wicked Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all comes to a head at the Twilight. Well, most of it. 
> 
> [Part Three of Chapter Four. Overlaps with Chapter Four: The Last Picture Show.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for swears (because honestly if you think these kids don't say fuck then I don't agree with you sowwy), vague references to rape/sexual assault/fear of men (in A Handmaid's Tale reference), discussion of Moose's dick, and references to school shootings, cause I'm sorry, fifteen year olds in 2018 would have real cause to be talking about school shootings.
> 
> (Yes I know Riverdale started in 2017 but my brain is like *no it's 2018 in s1 so I can play with CAOS too* so just....don't argue with me.)
> 
> I know I initially put 13 chapters up on the projection but oh my god I don't know who I thought I was kidding, my wordy ass. 
> 
> THIS IS THE CHAPTER I'VE BEEN REALLY EXCITED FOR AAAAAAAAAA
> 
> Also as a reminder: Betty never broke into Grundy's car with Veronica, never found the gun, and thus has not had a chance to write anything down in her diary, because she's been too sick to look at the damn thing, thus Alice has not gotten involved in anything...yet.

The Twilight Drive-In was never a place that Betty spent much time at as a kid. Not because she didn’t _want_ to—she still loves the idea of movies on a big screen, especially out at night where everything is beautiful—but because Alice didn’t like it. _Getting eaten alive by bugs while watching a movie? No thanks_. She can count the number of times she’s been out here on one hand, and all of them had been before she’d started high school.

It’s different than she remembers. There aren’t _so_ many obvious bits of drug paraphernalia on the ground that she notices them—then again, maybe she’s just naïve and doesn’t recognize them for what they are—but there _are_ a handful of Serpents already set up near the middle of the pack of cars, drinking and rowdy. Something about the gaggle of jackets sets her teeth on edge. It’s not that they’re a gang—honestly, she’s pretty sure some members of the Bulldogs are more violent than most Serpents, going off what she’s heard her mother muttering about when she has to get the paper to press on time—it’s just the kind of instinctive uneasiness that comes from a lot of large men, drunk and loud and openly aggressive, near her personal space.

“You’re shaking,” says Kevin, and puts his arm around her shoulders. “Relax, Betty.”

“I don’t like them shouting.”

“They won’t do anything,” says Veronica, who’d showed up at Pop’s in a beautiful, slinky black dress that made Betty’s eyes hurt. “They’re just a bunch of blowhards.”

“Men are afraid that women will laugh at them,” says Betty, and digs her nails into her palms at one particularly loud burst of laughter from the Serpents. “Women are afraid that men will kill them.”

Kevin rubs her shoulder, and tugs her into a closer hug. Nobody looking at them would ever believe they were actually together—Kevin’s got too many not-so-subtle looks going on with cute boys around the drive-in—but it’s nice being held by somebody. Polly had been the cuddly one in the Cooper house, and now that Polly’s gone, nobody really touches each other.

“Relax,” says Veronica, and rolls her eyes. “This isn’t Gilead, and they _definitely_ aren’t the Commanders. I’ve seen way worse.”

Veronica hasn’t looked her full in the eyes since she arrived at Pop’s, directing all her attention at Kevin and Kevin’s experiences and Kevin’s thoughts about the Twilight and everything else about Riverdale. She’d thought maybe it was her imagination, at first, paranoia that she’d done something weird, but—but now she’s sure it’s not. Veronica’s avoiding her. The _Handmaid’s Tale_ reference is the first time she’s spoken to Betty all night. Betty says, “Yeah, but this isn’t New York, Veronica.”

“Don’t I know it,” says Veronica, and sweeps her hair out of her eyes. “What I wouldn’t give for some Pinkberry in this godforsaken little town.”

“Hey, this is Riverdale,” says Kevin. “It was a big deal when we got _one_ Starbucks. Greendale doesn’t even have that.”

“Ugh,” says Veronica, and shudders, artfully. “Do Riverdale and Greendale compete about _everything_?”

“Oh, absolutely,” says Kevin, then, tipping his voice up: “ _Fuck Baxter High_!”

Half the people in the field in front of the movie screen whoop in unison.

“Anyway—” Kevin unhooks the back of the truck, laying it out flat so he can start tossing blankets over the bed. “Asking for a Pinkberry might be too much. If we got a mall or something within fifty miles I think the entire school would have heart failure. Though I’d straight up become some kind of mall slut, it’d be _so_ much better to hook up with closeted randoms in a public restroom or something than out in the woods like some kind of character on a BBC murder show—”

“Oh my _god_ ,” says Betty, unable to help herself, and Veronica laughs.

“Babe, you _need_ a gay bar in this joint.”

“Like this baby face could handle a fake ID,” says Kevin. “Besides, my dad would kill me if he caught me. Who wants Red Vines?”

“I’m good,” says Betty, and clambers into the back of the cab to fiddle with the blankets.

“V, what about you?”

“I want to see what’s on offer,” says Veronica, and hooks her arm through Kevin’s. “Betty, you sure you don’t want anything?”

“I’m good,” says Betty again. Then: “Maybe if there are Junior Mints?”

“I’m like, eighty percent sure that Ben Button eats all the mints in the back room before they even make it out to the counter,” says Kevin, and sighs. “If only that boy were—”

Betty’s ears go fuzzy.

 _Jason Blossom_ , she sees. It’s a notebook, with handwriting she doesn’t know. _16, Riverdale High School. Benjamin Button, 14, Riverdale High School. Archibald Andrews—_

Veronica’s voice, soft, careful—

_Repeat after me. Say it as I say it._

Power, hot and sweet, filling her lungs like blood—

“—ty? You good, babe?”

Betty shakes her head, and blinks at them both. Kevin’s got his hands hooked over the edge of the truck, looking up at her like he’s ready to catch her if she falls. Veronica is watching her, too, but as soon as Betty catches her looking, she looks away, tucking her lower lip beneath her teeth and biting down.

“Fine,” says Betty after a moment. “I’m fine.”

“You sure? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m just gonna sit.” She waves a hand. “You go get Red Vines. And don’t get distracted with Moose!”

Kevin rolls his eyes at her, tucks his arm through Veronica’s, and pulls her away.

It seems like half of Riverdale High is here for the last night at the Twilight. Betty stays standing in the bed of the truck, leaning against the cab and just—watching. Almost the whole football team is here. She can’t see Archie—something twists in her chest, and she’s not sure if it’s anger or sadness—but the Pussycats are here, and Moose with Midge tucked under his arm in line for popcorn and drinks. Ethel’s here, sitting in the front seat of a little Volkswagen bug that’s pulled up close to the screen. Even Dilton Doiley is here, with his dad in the beat-up camo-colored Jeep. Of course, Cheryl isn’t here—Cheryl wouldn’t be caught dead at a place like this—but Ginger and Gretchen and Tina are all packed in with Reggie in his dad’s fancy four-by-four.

Adults are here, too, but not as many. Mr. Andrews is sitting in the front cab of his beat-up truck with a woman that Betty doesn’t recognize. She’s beautiful—dark eyes in a thin face, her hair long and dark and wavy—and for a second, Betty thinks she recognizes her. As if she knows she’s being watched, the woman turns her head—

Dark eyes over her—

_Bless your mind bless your heart let these painful thoughts depart—_

It’s as if someone’s jabbed a stake into her eye. She cries out, clutching at her head, and looks away, at the concession stand, at the building—

_Let these painful thoughts—_

The pain eases as soon as it came. It leaves her gasping, standing in the truck bed, still holding her head like she wants to tear out her hair. Whatever hallucination she’d flashed back to was _not_ a kind one. Next to Kevin’s truck, a few people she kind of recognizes from the grocery store are giving her funny looks. Betty forces a smile onto her face, and tries to play it off like she’s fixing her ponytail. Her hands are shaking so badly she can’t do much more than yank her own hair. It’s only once the people next to Kevin’s truck look away that she lets the smile vanish, and flexes her hands in and out in an attempt to get them still again.

She’s so sick of being a _freak_. She’s sick of pretending she’s not sick. She’s sick of _being_ this way. Her eyes burn, and sting. Betty takes a deep breath, in and out, and presses her forefingers to the corners of her eyes. _I will not cry_. She holds it close in her mind. _I will not cry. Tonight is going to be good. Tonight is going to be fine. And if I’m still sick tomorrow, I’ll tell Mom. I’m not going to cry. Not at the stupid Twilight._

God, Jughead would be so mad if he heard her call it stupid. Betty looks up at the three-quarter moon until the last of the pain leaves her head.

When her vision clears, she looks around the field. Veronica and Kevin are still up at the concession stand. They’re standing right behind Moose and Midge. Kevin is, of course, flirting. Betty can see it in the set of his shoulders and hips, the way he’s laughing so loud that Betty can hear it even all the way back here. Midge, bless her whole heart, hasn’t noticed it at all. She’s gazing sunnily up at Moose as he answers, hand flat on his chest in a possessive, affectionate sort of way. She doesn’t have a clue, Betty thinks, that her boyfriend keeps showing off his baby-arm dick (Kevin’s words, not hers) to Kevin Keller in the boys’ bathroom at school. God, boys can be disgusting.

Speaking of boys—

@fpj3: _lmk when you arrive_.

It’d come in a good half an hour before she and Kevin had left for the Twilight. Betty fumbles her phone out, and swipes:

@PonyTailB: _Here with Kevin and Veronica!! Let me know if you want anything from concessions!_

There’s no reply. After a moment or two, the blue check for _read_ pops up in the Tweeter chat. Betty sighs, and tucks her phone into the back pocket of her jeans. Moose and Midge have bought whatever they’re asking for at the concessions, and have stepped aside to let Veronica and Kevin place their orders. Behind the counter, Ben Button, tiny and shy, is digging through a half-empty box by the popcorn machine.

A stirring of movement by the edge of the projection booth. It’s Jughead. She can’t really make him out—the lines of him kind of fade into the shadows—but he’s there. Veronica sees him too. She looks at Ben Button, and then at Kevin, before tugging Kevin’s sleeve and saying something that Betty can’t make out. Kevin looks over at her and then nods. Then Veronica—Veronica Lodge, New York Princess—walks away from the counter and into the shadows to speak with Jughead Jones. Betty stands there, in the dark, and watches. 

She can’t hear them. They’re _much_ too far away. Still; she sees Jughead’s face, and Veronica’s, and something about it makes her guts curdle. Jughead looks _angry_ as he steps out from the shadows, just enough that Betty can make out his expression. Kevin, talking with Moose, doesn’t notice, but Betty does. 

They’re arguing again. Jughead’s arms are wound so tight around his chest that he looks ready to shatter, but he points—at the truck, at Betty—and then at Veronica, not quite shaking his finger in her face but making it clear that he’s connecting the two. Veronica snaps back, fists balled up by her sides, hissing, whipping her head back and forth as if to see if anyone’s watching. When she turns away, Jughead darts sideways, blocking off her path. He throws his hands in the air.

It’s when Veronica points in _his_ face, shakes her finger at Jughead, that Betty curls her hands into knots.

“Okay,” she says, and then jumps down out of the bed of the truck. “That’s _it_.” This is done. She is _done_ with whatever is going on between Veronica and Jughead, whatever fight they’re having over her. Cause she’s not _stupid_ , it’s over her, for whatever reason, some friendship fight tugging back and forth over her, and she is _not_ going to be the middle of whatever it is they’re trying to prove. She has enough crap going on in her life right now.

Jumping out of the truck, of course, means she no longer has a clear view of them. Betty passes the brutal-looking red truck next to Kevin’s, and starts for the concession stand. It’s a maze of cars, all exhaust and dying grass and old beer cans. One of the Serpents lobs another into the air, and she has to duck to keep it from hitting her in the head. Laughter, loud, angry, _male_ , rings out behind her as Betty darts between two other cars, taking the long way around.

 _Chicken,_ says a voice in her head that’s almost like her mother, almost like Veronica. _If the Serpents are so harmless, stand up to them._

No. Not feeling jittery and weak. She can deal with it later, stand up to them later. She just wants to curl up in her bed right now and cry, if she’s honest.

Something skitters out of the corner of her eye. Betty pauses, halfway out of the car lot, and looks back, wondering if it was a rat. She doesn’t think rats would be ballsy enough to wander around the Twilight with so many people and cars here, but then again, she’s never actually seen a rat in real life. Whatever it was didn’t move like she thinks rats move, though. It’d been quick and lumpy, but not quite so oddly proportioned as a rat, and there hadn’t been a tail.

Betty crouches. Under the car—she’s not sure if she’s seeing this right—there’s a little pointed thing, half-hidden behind the grass. When she shines the flashlight from her phone on it, a little hedgehog face peers back at her. Betty freezes, and stays there, very still. The hedgehog, beneath the car, stares back at her, just as frozen. Not even its nose is twitching.

“Hi,” says Betty, in a very small voice, and the hedgehog’s ears twitch. When Betty turns her phone flashlight off, the hedgehog makes a little breathy noise, not quite a squeak, just a teeny little breathy thing that she might honestly have misheard.

“Go,” she says to the hedgehog. “Before anyone else sees you.”

“If you were that worried about your mints, you could have come along.”

She looks up. Veronica’s looking down at her with a funny little smile on her face, one eyebrow quirked. Betty stands fast, and brushes her hands along the backs of her jeans.

“I thought I saw a rat.”

“Ugh,” says Veronica. “So you went looking for it?”

“I—” She stops. She doesn’t need to defend that. “Where’s Kevin?”

“Hm? Oh.” Veronica takes a sip of her coke. “Ethel had some questions about the showcase. And I had Junior Mints to deliver to my girl.”

Betty takes the box, and looks at it. The expiration date was a week ago. She hadn’t known that Junior Mints _could_ expire. Then again, it _is_ the Twilight. Who knows how many years these things have been here. She doesn’t open the box.

“So?” Veronica stretches her arms up high over her head, squeaking a little at the effort. She’s all model-sleek, and Betty folds herself up and feels inadequate down to the bones. “How are you feeling? Better?”

“Hm?”

“You said you weren’t feeling well. Like, barfing and stuff.”

“Oh.” She turns the box of mints over in her hands. “I had some tea and stuff. Spent most of the day in the nurse’s office. I’m—okay.”

Veronica hums. The projector hasn’t started up yet. When Betty looks at her watch—a gift from her mother, something that Alice insists she wear—it’s 7:54. Six minutes to showtime.

“Veronica,” says Betty after a moment, and Veronica gives her a sideways look. “When we were hanging out yesterday, I didn’t—eat anything weird, did I?”

“What? No. We did homework and then you went home.” Veronica lifts one eyebrow. “Why, don’t you remember?”

“No, I do, I just—” She shrugs. “Jughead thought I might have food poisoning.”

V rolls her eyes. “Oh, god. Does he think I gave you spoiled milk or something?”

_—with pretty boys and human toys and secrets—_

“No,” says Betty, and shakes the flashback off. “No, that’d be stupid. He wouldn’t think that.”

“Good,” says Veronica, and leans over to squeeze Betty’s shoulder affectionately. “Because like he—hell would I feed you poison. Cheryl, maybe, but never you, B.”

Betty says nothing.

“Anyway,” says Veronica. “I wanted to ask—”

“Is that what were you and Jughead arguing about?”

Veronica blinks. Her eyes flare wide, almost comically, long lashes flickering like butterfly wings. “What?”

“You and Jughead,” says Betty. “You were arguing. By the concessions. Is that what were you arguing about? Me getting sick?”

Veronica brushes her hair back over her shoulder. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Betty. I wasn’t arguing with Jughead.”

“Oh, for god’s _sake_ , Veronica!” Betty almost stamps her foot. “I _saw you arguing_ , don’t—don’t act like you weren’t—”

“Betty—”

“Forget it,” says Betty. “I’ll ask him. Tell Kevin I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Betty, wait—”

She shakes off Veronica’s hand. She’s in no mood for any of this. Not anymore.

“Betty!”

She ignores Veronica. Behind her, the screen flickers, light-dark-light-dark. She’s pushing against the crowd, now. The bonus of the Twilight is that there are no trailers, especially when it’s playing an old film like _Rebel Without A Cause_ , but that’s also its downfall; if you miss the opening, you _miss the opening_. Reggie bumps into her shoulder, and grins at her as he turns to face her, saying, “Hey there, sexy,” but Betty ignores him the way she always does. Reggie’s convinced he’s god’s gift, and there’s nothing any girl or woman will say that will convince him otherwise.

Ben Button is still at the counter when she makes it up there. _Jason Blossom,_ her brain loops, _Ben Button_ , and she shakes it off, whatever stupid circle her mind keeps getting caught in. She leans forward, and says, “Hey, Ben.”

Ben blinks at her, very slowly. He’s very pale, is Ben Button, except for his dark eyes. He hasn’t washed his hair in a few days, and it’s lank and oily against his forehead. He blinks at her again, and then says, “Hey.”

“Did Jughead go back to the projection booth?”

He inclines his head, all languid.

“Can I go back there?”

“Guests aren’t supposed to go into the projection booth,” he says.

Betty puts her elbows against the counter. She keeps her hands curled, so he won’t see the scars on her palms, as she leans forward, kind of pressing her boobs forward, and says, “Ben, c’mon. Jughead’s my friend. And it’s the last night the Twilight’s going to be open, is it really going to cause any harm?”

Ben blinks again. Then: “Well…maybe. We keep it locked so people can’t go in and mess with the equipment.”

“You lock him in?”

“It’s like…a fire hazard.”

“Is it?” Betty widens her eyes, just a little. “Like…I’m not going to touch anything in there. I just need to talk to Jughead and he’s not answering his phone.”

Ben debates, carefully. Then he sighs, rolling his eyes. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll get the key.”

“You’re the _best_ , Ben,” Betty coos, and ignores the way Ben’s neck turns pink when she does it. She’s not above being manipulative when she has to, but messing with Ben using her boobs and her pretty eyes (the only part of her that she really thinks of as pretty, if she’s honest) feels nasty, especially with Grundy still so raw in the back of her head. Ben extracts a key from the drawer in the counter, and passes it to her. “I’ll give it back, okay? I promise.”

“Just give it to Jughead,” says Ben, and rolls his eyes again. “It’s the last night, who gives a shit.”

“The _best_ ,” says Betty again, and bounces away, all River Vixen.

The entry to the projection booth is around the back of the concession stand, kind of mounted up on the second floor so the projector works and directs the image against the two-story screen. The door on the ground level is unlocked, despite the very pointed _EMPLOYEES ONLY, NO ENTRY_ sign pasted on the door; it creaks when she opens it. The opening chords of _Rebel Without A Cause_ hum in the background. Betty closes the door very quietly, and makes her way up the dimly lit stairs to the top. The key fits in the lock.

She should probably knock, she thinks. But—

She turns the knob.

The projection booth is mostly dark. There’s one lamp, dim in the corner, but other than that it’s almost completely black. She’s never seen an old-fashioned projector in person before; it rattles, almost like a living thing, as the canister of film plays. For a second, she can’t make out Jughead; then the lump beside the projector moves, and she recognizes the jagged edge of the crown beanie, perched on the top of his head.

“Who’s there?” he says. “Ben, for fuck’s sake, go back down to concession,”

“It’s not Ben,” she says. “Jughead—” 

She stops.

There’s a cot in the projection booth. She’s not sure if that’s normal, for projection booths. Maybe projector operators need a place to sit while they’re waiting for whatever extended edition of _Lord of the Rings_ that’s playing that night. What isn’t normal—what _can’t be normal_ —is the duffel bag sitting on the floor half full of packed clothes, the books and camera parts strewn across a back table.

Jughead’s on his feet, the three-legged stool he’d been sitting on to monitor the projector clattering to the floor. She’s never seen Jughead scared. Not openly, not like this. Now, he’s scared. His wide eyes fix on her, just for a moment, before darting over her shoulder, all around the room. He curls his hands up, shoves them into his pockets, shoulders hitching up, curving away from her.

“Betty,” he says. “You’re not supposed to be in—”

“You’re living here,” Betty blurts out, and rough color shoots from his collar up to the brim of his hat. He jerks around, righting the stool and sitting on it again.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Jughead,” she says, “ _you have a cup with a toothbrush in it on that table._ ”

His back is to her now. His shoulders are up against the lobes of his ears when he says, “You’re not supposed to be in the projection booth, Betty.”

“Fine,” says Betty. Her hands are shaking. “Then come out here, outside of the booth, and _talk to me,_ Jughead, please—”

“This isn’t your business, Betty—”

“You’re angry,” she says, trying to make her voice steel. It doesn’t work. It shears off in the middle. “Because I caught you _squatting in the projection booth_ of the Twi—this is why you don’t want it torn down? Because you’re living here?”

“This place is a part of Riverdale history—”

“You’re _living here,_ Jughead!” She gestures to it, the whole space, the reels of film, the projector still rattling away, the dark booth and the single light he has set up in the corner, a camping lantern that looks like it ought to be lit with gas. “ _Living here_ , what _happened_ —”

He laughs, darkly. “What always happens.”

“ _Talk to me_ ,” she says, and he whirls away, pacing, back and forth in that tiny space. “Jughead, explain to me what’s happening, please, _talk_ to me—”

“So you can pity me?” He scoffs. “No thanks.”

“I’m not _pitying you_ —”

He turns on her, then. There’s something vicious in the set of his jaw, in how he bites it all out, bit by bit, stones that strike home, shattering her bones. “You think I don’t know that you asking me to help you with the _Blue and Gold_ wasn’t some kind of pity play? That—that the only reason you even talk to me is because you want to feel needed by somebody? I know—if you help me graduate high school, I bet it’d be _great_ for some kind of college essay—”

“Fuck you,” she says, voice shaking. “ _Fuck you_ , Jughead—”

“Don’t act like you don’t know what they call me, Betty, I’m the _freak_ , I’m the one voted _Most Likely to Shoot Up an Elementary School_ , the _murderer_ , right—”

“I—”

“So _tell me_ ,” he says, and his head tips, his mouth twisting, “what the hell you, _girl next door_ Betty Cooper, get out of talking to me except some fucking _brownie points_ with your Yale guidance counselor four years from now—” 

“I asked you to help me because you’re _better at this than me_ ,” says Betty, and it leaves her almost in smoke, hissing and soft and wild. Her head is pounding, pounding, pounding. Out of the corner of her eye she can see _Rebel Without A Cause_ playing on the screen, Jim and Buzz at the planetarium. _Was it because we went to that party? Well, you know what kind of drunken brawls those kind of parties turn into, it’s not a place for kids—_ “I asked you to help me because you’re a better writer, and you’re better at getting people to talk to you, you’re _better at this_ and you were already interested and you’re my friend and I _trust you_ , so _fuck you_ , Jughead—”

Jughead scoffs through his teeth, jaw clenched so hard a tendon stands taut in his neck. “We were never _friends_ , Betty. You and Archie were friends. Archie and I were friends. You and me? We weren’t friends. We just talked because of circumstance—”

She can feel it, the bite of nails in her palms. Behind Jughead, something begins to rattle. The film canisters. They’re shaking, and _oh, god_ , she knows what that means, she has to go, right now, she has to leave, but if she leaves she’ll prove him right, and Archie’s already turned his back on her today; she’s _not losing Jughead too_. She breathes in hard and fast through her nose. _Control. Get it under control._ “God, Jughead, no, how can you _think that_ —”

“What the hell else am I supposed to think when you barely talk to me where people can see you unless I’m with Archie—”

Tears streak down her cheeks as she says, “That’s _not true_ —”

“The hell it’s not,” he says, and they’re face to face now, barely a foot between them, and she didn’t realize how _tall_ Jughead was now until this moment, that he’s taller than her and for all that he’s whip-thin he’s _bigger_ than she is. “Tell the truth for once, Betty Cooper, for once in your _perfect fucking life_ , tell the goddamn _—_ ”

All at once, the lamp explodes. It’s not a pop; it’s a _bang_ , a loud one, glass flying everywhere, the light flaring white hot and then vanishing. In the same moment, every single film canister in the musty, dusty, disheveled shelves go flying. She doesn’t process what happens, not at first; it goes from black to green, and then someone’s on top of her, a hissed _shit_ from above her that’s most definitely Jughead, and that there are people screaming and things are _happening_ and smoke and singed film roast the air—

“Betty,” says Jughead, and he rolls off her. She’s flat on her back in the grass, staring up at the moon. _How the hell did we get outside?_ “Shit— _fuck_. Betty, are you okay?”

There’s blood streaking from her hands. She’s dizzy. She says, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Fuck,” says Jughead, and behind him there’s a glaring, gleaming flame. It’s the projection booth. He looks at her, crouching, and then back at the booth. “You—stay here.”

“Jughead, wait, _no_ ,” she says, but he’s already on his feet and darting back up the stairs. There’s a hiss of a fire extinguisher, spurting, as she gets slowly to her feet. She can’t move. She can’t _leave_. If she leaves then something will happen to Jughead, she’s absolutely certain of it, and Betty draws in a sharp breath and makes her way back up into the booth.

He’s collecting his things. The fire extinguisher is on the floor, on its side, leaking orange goo. _Out of date_ , thinks a far distant, serious bit of her. Flames are engulfing the whole back wall of the projection booth, eating up the films, the cabinets, and when she says, “Jughead,” he whips his head up and hisses through his teeth. It’s _hot_ , the bursting of the lantern and the film going up in a split second.

“I told you to stay outside,” he says, but she comes in next to him anyway and grabs things off the table, the books, the camera—

“Shut up, asshole,” she says, fiercely, because she can’t say _it’s my fault your things are burning._ “What else—”

“That’s it, go, get out of here—”

His hand is on her back when the flames hit the projector. She can see it, somehow, even though she shouldn’t remember it. Fire eating up the _Rebel Without A Cause_ tape like it’s racing up a rope, into the center of the mechanism, the wires catching light—she’s caught, pulled back, Jughead’s holding her close around the shoulders as he slams the door to the booth—

“Jughead—”

“ _Trust me_ ,” he says, and even though they have split seconds, Betty takes one to look at him before nodding, before pressing her face into the rough weave of his coat. Jughead’s heart is beating hard against her shoulder. She’s so close she can feel him swallow, shaking like a leaf, the buzz in his chest as he starts to speak.

“ _Air above, earth below, shield us now on ways we go_ —”

Something buckles—

Pressure squeezes tight in her head—

“ _Water bear us, fire guide, take us to the other side—_ ”

She hears the support beam on the roof snap—

The door jams—

Betty _screams_ —

Then they’re tumbling, falling forward, and the door slams shut. The air is cool. In the distance, a dog is barking. She’s in the woods. More than that—Jughead is in the woods. They’re both in the Fox Forest, together, and there’s no fire, no booth, no Twilight, no car, no Kevin, no Veronica, no film. The backs of her hands feel scorched. Jughead’s torn his coat off, and is beating it repeatedly against a tree; the fabric is alight. It’s only once he’s put out the flames, and he’s left the jacket against the ground, swearing ferociously, that he turns to look back at her.

Silence hangs rigid in the air.

“What,” says Betty, “the _fuck_ was that?”


	8. Wicked Will Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things are explained. Someone gets arrested. 
> 
> [Final Part of Chapter Four. Overlaps with Chapter Four: The Last Picture Show.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for discussion of hallucinations and panic.

“I can explain,” says Jughead.

Betty crosses her arms tight across her chest. She’s freezing, all of a sudden. Her clothes were good enough for being cuddled up under a blanket with Kevin and Veronica, but not for this. Not for being in the middle of the Fox Forest. Not, she thinks, looking at the scorched backs of her hands, for the aftermath of shock, This must be shock, she thinks. Adrenalin is pounding through her like a drug. She can’t seem to stop shaking. Pacing isn’t helping. Nor is Jughead, who is so still she thinks he might be broken inside. Only his eyes are moving, tracking her back and forth in the dark. They’re in a part of the woods where the treeline breaks up, so the light of the three-quarter moon spills across the ground in puddles of gleaming grey.

“You’re not doing much explaining,” she says, and paces faster. Her hands ache, like she’s dragged the backs of them over a hot stove. Not a bad burn, but a burn. Evidence. _That was real. The fire was real._ “What the _hell_ is going on, Jughead—”

“Look, it’s—it’s complicated—”

“It’s _insane_ ,” she bursts out, and stares at him. “We’re—Jughead, we were in the _Twilight._ We’re—that’s—how did we _get here_ , how did—”

“A transposition door,” says Jughead.

“A—” She about flings her hands in the air. “Jughead, I don’t know what that _means_.”

“It means linking two doors in different locations through the elements,” says Jughead, in a wooden voice. He gestures back at a tree, and for the first time Betty notices that there’s a knob carved in the bark. “It’s something—something I learned how to do.”

“Learned—what—what the _hell_ —” She’s shaking. Her hearing is going in and out. Betty presses her hands over her face, and then says, “This is a hallucination.”

Jughead says nothing.

“This is a hallucination!” She starts laughing, and it’s high, hysterical. Once the giggles come, she can’t get hold of them again. “They’ve been getting worse and worse and now I’m finally completely crazy! I’m—I should be the one in some home, not Polly, she’s not the one who—”

He’s folded his arms close over his chest, but that gets him looking up. Jughead says, “Betty—”

“ _No_ ,” she says, and points right at him, and overhead a tree branch cracks right through and drops to the ground. Jughead jumps as if he’s been electrocuted, looking at it, and then at her, and then at the branch again. “No—no, _I get to talk now._ ”

His eyes are wide, and so very blue. Betty whirls, and begins to walk again, back and forth, back and forth, because she _cannot stop moving_. If she stops she might collapse.

“Betty,” says Jughead, in a voice so soft that she can barely hear. “You—”

“What the _hell_ ,” says Betty, “is a transpositional door?”

“Transposition,” he says, automatically. Something in his face is—she can’t make it out. He doesn’t really seem to be aware of what he’s saying. He’s just watching her as she keeps pacing, back and forth, back and forth, flexing her hands, keeping her nails tight in her palms. _Focus. Focus. Focus._ “If I ask properly and focus hard enough I can link one doorway with another. It means that I could open a door in the Twilight—”

“And come out in the _woods_?”

He shrugs. His arms drop slowly to his sides as he watches her, lips parting. “There’s a door here. The coven carved one ages ago.”

 _Coven._ Betty paces faster. “ _Coven_?”

Jughead says, “The Sweetwater Circle,” he says. “The Circle of the Snake. The coven.”

For a second she thinks he’s joking. Jughead has an odd sense of humor even when they haven’ just thrown each other out of burning buildings. But he’s serious. He meets her eyes, doesn’t look away.

“Coven,” she says. “Like…witches.”

His throat works, so clearly that she can see the bob of his adam’s apple. “Betty—”

“I’m hallucinating,” says Betty again. “This is—this is another thing like—like Jason’s ghost or whatever the hell—”

Jughead’s eyes narrow. “Jason’s _ghost_?”

“I’m—I can’t—” Her eyes well up and over. She wipes her cheeks, and has the vague sense she’s smearing blood onto her face, instead of wiping away the tears. “I don’t—

“Hey,” says Jughead after a moment, and then he’s closer all at once. Jughead hesitates, and then he touches the tips of his fingers to the edge of her shoulder, the sleeve of her coat. Betty shakes her head, back and forth, not a no, just trying to get movement out, motion, trying to breathe— “Betty. Betts, hey, look at me—”

“ _Don’t you get it?_ ” She puts her hands hard to his chest, shoves him away, and Jughead stumbles back. The set of his jaw changes again, to something stubborn, chin jutting out like he has something to prove. “I’m crazy! _I’m crazy_! I’m having episodes all the time and seeing things and—and hearing things and losing time and my memory is all over the place and I’m _losing everyone_ and I don’t—I don’t—”

Jughead’s lips sear into a line. Then, without a word, he takes a massive step forward and pulls her into a hug, and it’s the smell of smoke and seared film and dirt and leaves and boy that pushes her over the edge. Betty _sobs_ , hooking her nails into the back of Jughead’s plaid button down and hiding her face in the collar of his T-shirt. She doesn’t quite feel her knees give out, only the shift when Jughead’s balance tips, the reverberation of him leaning back against a tree to keep them both upright. Bark scrapes at the back of her burned hands. She sobs, and snot tangles up her throat and chokes her, and her eyes hurt, and she can’t stop crying, can’t stop rasping, can’t stop _panicking_. Jughead’s wrapped his arms so tight around her ribs that it aches, and he’s mumbling into the top of her head, little things like _it’s okay_ and _you’re not crazy_ and _you’ll be okay_ , but it’s not helping. It just makes everything inside clench up and twist into painful knots.

Betty cries and cries until she can’t properly manage it anymore. It’s not that her eyes dry out; it’s that she’s _tired._ She can’t really get up the breath to even hiccup after a while, let alone let another sniffle. Jughead’s shirt is soaking wet against her cheek, smeared with makeup and tears and the evidence of her very runny nose. When she goes to pull back, his hands kind of flex against her back before he lets her go.

“Sorry,” says Betty. “It’s been a really—really weird day.”

Jughead doesn’t say anything right away. She realizes, after a moment, that one of his palms is still resting against her shoulder, thumb barely brushing the side of her neck. It doesn’t feel weird, exactly, just—heavy with the knowledge that Jughead doesn’t really touch people. “I’ll bet,” says Jughead. “And then I acted like a dick so that didn’t help.”

Betty hiccups again, wipes her eyes with the hems of her sleeves. “God. You were a _dick_ , Jughead.”

He shakes his head, but not in a no.

“Listen to me,” Betty says. Her voice cracks from all the tears, husky and hoarse. “You’re not a project. You’re my _friend._ You’ve always been my friend. Even when you’re a sanctimonious _dick_ about things, you’re my friend. So—so stop thinking that I only want to talk to you and spend time with you because it _looks good_ , you absolute _prick_.”

His mouth goes all crooked. “I don’t think I’ve heard you swear so much ever.”

“ _Fuck_ you,” says Betty. “Don’t joke about this—” 

“Okay, yes, bad timing.” Jughead’s eyebrows pinch together. “Sorry.”

“Are you?”

He looks down at the moss, and says, “Yes. I am.”

She wipes her eyes with the hems of her sleeves again. 

“You’re not crazy,” says Jughead, softly. “Betty. You aren’t.”

Betty shakes her head. “You don’t know what—”

“Betty,” he says again, and when she looks up at him, his eyes are steady and calm. “ _You’re not crazy._ I swear to you. I know crazy. Whatever is going on with you, _you’re_ not crazy.”

Her phone buzzes in the back of her pocket. Distantly, Betty realizes it’s been doing that for a while. She hadn’t been paying attention, but it’s been vibrating against her butt for _ages_. She ignores it. “Jughead—”

Jughead holds up one hand, and tips his head. Then: “ _Shit_ ,” he says, and leaps into motion so fast that she almost can’t process it. He gathers his things, shoving them willy-nilly into his bag. “We have to go. Right now—”

“What? I—”

“Betty,” he says, and he looks up at her from where he’s crouched on the ground. “Betty, I _swear_ to you we’re going to talk about this, okay, I _promise_ , I swear on everything that matters to me, but we have to get back to the Twilight right now, people are looking for us—”

“How do you—”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I want—we really have to go back right now—”

“Jughead—”

“As soon as we can,” he says. He looks at his burned coat, and then leaves it there, draped over a tree root. “Betty, I swear, okay? I _swear_.”

Betty hesitates. Then: “Okay.”

“Here,” says Jughead, and then he’s fiddling with something around his neck. She’s always kind of known Jughead likes metal, the texture of rings on his fingers, but she’s never noticed he wears a necklace. He lifts it over his head—the chain is very long, and dangling at the end is a small silvery circle, braced against a heavy, iron-looking ring made to fit around a man’s thumb—and settles it around her neck without hesitation. “That’s my promise, okay? I have to get that back from you, and I’ll answer everything then, but for now I just—I know I fucked up and you have no reason to trust me but I just need a few more hours, okay?”

“Okay,” says Betty again, because that’s what friends do. She tucks the necklace under her shirt—it tangles with the crucifix her father gave her, but she doesn’t have time to care—and says it a third time. “Okay.”

Jughead searches her face, eyes flicking back and forth.

“Okay,” he says, and holds out his hand again. “Come on.”

She takes his hand.

.

.

.

The second trip through the transposition door is easier, if only because they’re not about to be crushed with a collapsing projection booth. Jughead opens the door to what appears to be a maintenance shed on the property of the Twilight, and as soon as he does, red and blue flashing lights blind her. Jughead closes the door, just enough that whoever’s out there won’t see them, and looks back at her, his face a jagged shadow in the dark.

“The cops are going to want to talk to us,” he says. “Just—are you okay?”

Betty’s guts creep. Then she straightens, puts her shoulders back. “Yeah.”

“Betty—”

“I’m okay, Jug,” she says. Then: “We were just talking about Archie and then had an argument. I walked off, and you were so upset you took a walk. And you just came back. Right?”

Jughead stills, just for a moment. She gets the vaguest slice of his smile, rough and teeth bared. “Right.”

He pushes the door open, and lets her leave first.

It’s a crush of people and firetrucks and police cars, of movie-goers all bunched into packs looking anxious, more cars coming in by the minute as terrified parents and more deputies show up to the deluge. Jughead melts away into the dark the instant she turns around to look for him, and she can only hope that’s a good thing and not some other trick of her mind. People don’t see her at first; she goes on her toes, looking, and then she _feels_ rather than hears the shriek.

“ _BETTY_!”

It’s Kevin. He lunges through the gaggle of people to ram right into her, practically lifting her off her feet with the force of his crushing hug. Betty hugs him back, but only after a moment; he’s trembling so badly she’s worried he’ll hurt himself. He pulls back, looks at her. “Holy shit, holy _fuck_ , we’ve been looking everywhere for you where the hell did you _go_ we thought you were in the fucking booth Ben said—”

“I’m fine,” says Betty, and puts her arms around his neck to hold him. Kevin lets out a rasping little noise that’s almost like a sob, and lifts her off her feet again, clinging tight. “Kevin, I’m fine. I’m fine.”

Tears leak down her neck where Kevin has his face pressed. She feels like a monster.

“Betty,” says Veronica, and she melts out of the dark, too, Veronica with her eyeliner streaking down her cheeks and her chin wobbling, “oh my god, B,” and then Kevin’s put Betty down so Veronica can hug her too, tight around the neck like a noose. “God, we thought you and Jughead were dead, we couldn’t find you, it’s been almost half an hour, your mom and dad—”

“I went on a walk—”

“ _Betty_ ,” says a voice, and the crowd—because a crowd has gathered around them, whispering, watching—parts. It’s her mother, so white and faded she looks like a ghost. Veronica lets go of Betty and backs away, and Betty stands there, unsure what to do, as Alice reaches up to cup her cheek. Her hands are trembling.

“Betty,” Alice says again, and begins to cry. “Betty, Betty—”

“I’m okay, Mom,” says Betty, because there’s nothing else she can think to say. Even when Betty had come back from LA to find Polly gone, she’s never seen her mother like this. Hal is behind her mother, and he’s also been crying—she realizes, in that moment, that she’s never seen her dad cry. She’s never seen either of her parents this way. Her mother’s almost acting _human_ , messy and crying and petting Betty’s hair with both hands as if she’s making sure Betty is still there, alive and well.

 _Oh,_ she thinks.

“ _Betty_ ,” Hal says, hoarse, and then it’s the three of them, Betty tucked between the two in a hug so desperate that she doesn’t feel like she can breathe.

They stand there, the remaining Coopers, as in the near distance a firefighter hoses down what remains of the Twilight Drive-In.

The interview with one of Keller’s deputies is short and to the point. She tells him what she and Jughead had agreed on—that she’d gone up to the projection room (yes, illegally, she knows that), that they’d argued, that she’d burst out and put her headphones in and gone on a walk up the road. She hadn’t noticed the sirens and the lights and the smoke because she’d had her music turned all the way up, and was walking with her back to the Twilight. (Betty tugs her sleeves down over her hands as best she can, and she’s lucky it’s a nervous habit and that it’s dark; the burns on her hands give the game away if nothing else does.) Deputy Dixon asks her only a few questions—did she see anything in the projection room that seemed like it was broken, did Jughead do anything, did she hear or see anything she can remember—and when she shakes her head to all of them, he sighs and says, “Well, you’re the luckiest girl here, Betty Cooper.”

“I don’t feel that way,” says Betty. “Where’s Jughead?”

“Sheriff’s talking to him,” says Deputy Dixon, and Betty leans sideways to see Jughead, arms crossed over his chest, stony, standing nose to nose with Sheriff Keller. Next to Betty, Alice tenses, and loops her arm tighter around Betty’s shoulder. “So long as you’re both cleared by medics—”

“I feel fine,” Betty says immediately. “I wasn’t here, I didn’t—I didn’t inhale any smoke or get burned or anything—Mom—”

“I’ve told you to stay away from that boy,” says Alice, in a reedy voice. Betty can _see it_ as her mother folds her heart away, becomes that perfectly coiffed, perfectly composed Alice Cooper again. There are cracks in the façade, but no one but her family would notice it now. “How many times have I told you he’s trouble—”

“He’s my friend—Mom, let go, I want to make sure he’s okay—”

“He’s fine,” Alice says, and Betty’s heart drops. “You can see that from here. We’re going home, Betty—”

“Mom, let _go_ ,” says Betty. Hal, on her other side, looks ready to grab her by the wrist, but Betty darts back before he can. “Just let me check on him, _please_ —”

“Too late,” says Alice, and when Betty looks around, Sheriff Keller has put his heavy hand on Jughead’s shoulder. “Looks like your _friend_ is getting arrested. Just like a Jones to be in the center of all this mess—”

“He didn’t _do anything_ ,” Betty says, and dances back from her father, but Deputy Dixon catches her before she can slip away. She can’t hit a sheriff’s deputy, she thinks, but panic’s latched on again. She can’t breathe. “Deputy, he didn’t _do anything_ , Jughead wouldn’t _do that_ —”

“Sheriff’s just doing what he has to,” says Deputy Dixon. “If he didn’t do anything, he’s in the clear.”

“ _He didn’t_ ,” Betty says, and lunges, but someone’s arm loops around her waist and pulls her back. Hal. Her dad. She almost kicks him in the balls. “Jughead didn’t do anything—Dad, you have to tell him he didn’t do anything, he didn’t start the fire, it was an accident _—_ ”

“We’ll want to interview you all again tomorrow,” says Deputy Dixon, as if she’s not being lifted off her feet by her own father. “Get home safe, Mrs. Cooper.”

“Thanks, David.”

“He didn’t do anything, it’s not his fault, it’s—” _mine_ “—Dad, let me _go_ , _LET ME GO_ —”

“Betty Cooper,” says Alice, but her voice fades away as Betty looks over her dad’s shoulder. Jughead’s turned to look at her, and she sees fear flash across his face as he sees what’s happening. He shakes his head, ever so slightly, as if to say, _Don’t draw attention, it’s okay._ But it’s _not okay_ , he’s getting arrested and it’s because of something _she did_ , _she_ started the fire, her temper and her lack of control was what caused all this, and she’s usually so strong and capable of handling things but her dad is bigger and stronger than her, she can’t get him to let go—

“Betty,” says Veronica, and she’s come right up to Hal without any of them noticing, looking up into Betty’s face. “Betty, you can’t do anything tonight. You can’t fight the Sheriff.”

That icy storm flickers on the back of Betty’s neck again. Veronica catches her gaze, and holds it.

“I’ll go,” says Veronica. “I’ll go to the station. We’ll help him. I promise, Betty.”

“Like your family helps anyone, _Veronica Lodge_ ,” says Alice, and pulls her keys from her purse with shaking hands. “We’re going home. Betty, stop making a scene.”

When Betty looks up again, Jughead’s been loaded into the back of a police car. She can’t see him anymore.

The drive back to Elm Street is made in absolute silence. It’s the swell of an oncoming storm, Betty thinks, as she sits in the center of the backseat with her fingers primly folded in her lap, sleeves tugged forward over the scorched backs of her hands. No one says a word for the whole drive across Riverdale, not her dad who is driving with his knuckles clenched white around the wheel, not her mother who is folded into tangles in the front passenger seat. It’s only once they’ve pulled into the driveway of their house and her dad’s turned the key in the ignition that her mother turns.

“You didn’t answer my calls.”

Betty blinks. This is _not_ what she expected to be the first avenue of attack. “What?”

“I called,” says Alice. Her eyes shine glassy in the light of the motion sensor they have set up over the garage door. “I called and called, Betty, and you _didn’t answer._ ”

“I had my phone on silent for the movie.”

“ _Never again_ ,” says Alice. “You _answer me when I call or text you_ , young lady, or I swear to god there will be no way you’re ever leaving my house again, do you understand me?”

“You can’t just lock me up—”

“ _WE THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD,_ ” Alice shrieks, and it reverberates in the car, digging deep into Betty’s ears. “ _Do you understand?_ Your father and I thought you were _dead_ , that you were lying somewhere in the wreckage of that godforsaken _fucking_ booth, and _you didn’t answer our phone calls_ —”

“Alice,” says her father, and Alice snaps her mouth shut. She opens the passenger side door, gets out, and slams it behind her, stalking up to the house. Betty sits there, and realizes that two more tears have rolled out fresh onto her cheeks.

“Honey,” says Hal. He turns in the driver’s seat. “We—your mother’s not—we were very scared. We thought we were going to lose you. She’s very upset.”

Betty wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand, ignoring the sting of salt against her burn.

“If it was an accident, they’ll let the Jones boy go.” That’s always how Hal has referred to Jughead, _the Jones boy, the Jones kid, Baby Jones_. Betty’s never known why. “You have to trust Sheriff Keller, okay? And if you say he didn’t do it, then I’m sure he didn’t, and he’ll be out as soon as they get a chance to talk to him a little bit.”

“Yeah right,” says Betty. She looks at her dad. “Everyone hates Jughead, they’re just—they’ll blame him for something he didn’t do because that’s easier than—”

“Honey, that’s not true—”

“Mom hates him,” says Betty. “You hate him. Sheriff Keller hates him, the school hates him, and he didn’t _do anything_!”

Hal’s lips press thin. He says, “Watch your tone, Elizabeth.”

Betty reels herself back under control. For once, the pressure in her head is spent. The fire seems to have emptied her out to nothing. The anger, though—that’s still bright and raw. “He didn’t do anything.”

“And if that’s true,” says Hal, steady, “then you’ll be able to talk to him tomorrow. Okay?”

Betty folds her arms across her chest.

“Come on,” says Hal. “You think we can go inside now? I was thinking we could order Thai so your mother doesn’t have to cook after all this.”

She almost spits venom. Instead, softly— _softly, softly, everything’s perfect_ —she says, “Okay, Daddy.”

Hal puts his arm around her as they walk up to the house. Betty’s skin crawls.

_Everything’s perfect._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU DIDN'T THINK RIVERDALE WOULD MAKE IT EASY WOULD YOU


	9. A Wicked Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to the Sheriff. A conversation with a Hunter. 
> 
> [Part One of Chapter Five. Overlaps with Chapter Five: Heart of Darkness.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Wild Fred Appears! 
> 
> CW: mentions of dead/zombie smooches, more mentions of Grundy (Archie and Betty somehow manage to have a semi-civil conversation in the midst of all this); cops (which trigger me idk about y'all); controlling/emotionally abusive parental behavior. More Cooper Joy.
> 
> Kevin's emojis delight me. 
> 
> Also another note I cannot bELIEVE to this day that Riverdale writers don't realize how teenagers would never pick up the fucking phone unless they knew the person calling and HOW MUCH CONVERSATION GOES ON THROUGH TEXT I SWEAR

_Oh Polly, pretty Polly, would you take me unkind? Polly, pretty Polly, would you take me unkind? Let me set beside you, and tell you my mind_ …

She is in a house. A room. There’s a cross on the wall. The sheets are rough against her hands.

_Well my mind is to marry and never to part—_

She’s in a room. A house. The walls are dark, the sheets are smooth. There’s a painting on the wall, Hieronymus Bosch’s _The Garden of Earthly Delights._ The figures of paint are moving, swaying back and forth, a battlefield of monsters and humans being swallowed whole. One turns to look her in the face, and screams.

— _the first time I saw you it wounded my heart—_

She turns, and there’s a boy standing beside her, red hair and brown eyes and fair, fair skin—he takes her hand—

 _Oh Polly, pretty Polly, come go along with me_ —

She’s in a bed and there are sheets—

 _Before we get married some pleasures to see_ —

She looks up and hanging over her is not a boy but a corpse, dripping, cold, and his wet tongue drags against her lips—

Betty bursts awake.

Her room is dark. When she gropes for her phone, it’s fallen to the floor, proudly displaying _4:41AM_ on the screen when her fingers scrape across it. She can’t remember falling asleep, but she _does_ know the last time she looked at her clock it was 2:30ish. She’d had her phone on silent out of spite; now that she’s toggling the alerts again, the messages are pouring in, not just from her actual friends, but from near strangers. Even Cheryl has reached out to her via the Vixens groupchat, if only to say, _if you died in that fire, does that mean I can finally replace you with Midge?_

She swipes through the messages.

♕V♕: _Jughead’s still in the back somewhere. My mom came and got me because of curfew (curfew at midnight?!??!?! What is Riverdale?!??!?!?!) but I’ll go back as soon as they open up again tomorrow morning_

♕V♕: _I hope you’re okay_

♕V♕: _Let me know how you’re doing when you get the chance, B_

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈: _my dad was home for like ten minutes before he left for work again_

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈 _: he said that jughead’s staying in the station overnight_

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈: _this is so stupid jughead wouldn’t burn down the twilight he loved that stupid place_

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈: _baby b someone stole the fuckin murderboard my dad had set up about jason_

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈: _holy shit this is cray_

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈: _can you text me back when you see this so i kno youre okay??_

Archie: _omfg wtf wtf wtf wtf_

Archie: _heard from dad_

Archie: _holy shit betty r u ok_

Archie: _can’t c in ur window_

Archie: _betty!!!!!_

Betty flops onto her back. Her parents are still awake. She can hear them still whisper-yelling at each other, the way they think hides their arguments from her when, in fact, it carries well down the hallway right into her room. No wonder she’s been having so many terrible dreams, when reality is hell.

She kicks the blankets off the bed, and turns on her light. Archie’s lights are out, though his curtains aren’t drawn; she can see right through the glass to one of the music posters he has hanging on the wall. Her phone dangles from her fingers as she clambers out of bed, heads to the bathroom. Her hands are still bright red on the backs, but not more than a very bad sunburn would cause. Her eyes are worse. Alice had taken one look at her in the kitchen when they’d come home and asked if she’d been assaulted, which had not gone down well with anyone _._ Betty leans against the counter, and breathes.

_I swear on everything that matters to me._

A _coven._ She’s not—sure if she believes it. She knows that there are Wiccans—that’s not like a secret; there are loads of different religions in the world, she listens to podcasts about cults, she _knows_ that—but a coven? In _Riverdale?_ Riverdale is mostly Catholic and Protestant, some Mormons, and a strong Jewish community in the South Side, but no pagans, at least not to her knowledge. And Jughead had seemed so—

 _Scared,_ she thinks. He’d seemed frightened. Not to be telling her, exactly. Just—scared.

 _Witchcraft,_ she thinks, and flexes her hands. _Witchcraft._

She’s never believed in witches. It’s not something that she’s even _considered._ Witchcraft. Magic. _Sorcery._ Something lifts up her throat, swells. _Magic._ If it’s real—

“Magic isn’t real,” she says to herself. It’s sour on her tongue.

 _But neither is telekinesis._ She looks at the door, focuses, and it shuts itself. _And you can do that._

She needs to talk to Jughead. She will not jump to conclusions. She _needs_ to talk to him. And—she needs to know he’s okay. Because he’s _not okay,_ she’s sure that he hasn’t been for _ages,_ and he hid it from all of them, being homeless, being—she’s _worried._ He went and got _arrested_ for her, and she didn’t even notice he was _living at the Twilight._ She’s the _worst friend._

The chain weighs heavy around her neck. Betty hesitates, darts a glance back at her bathroom door—her parents are still arguing, but she doesn’t want to risk it—and draws Jughead’s necklace out from underneath the fabric of her T-shirt. She hadn’t had a chance to really look at it before getting shoved into her room.

It’s a pentacle. Betty’s never seen one in person before—well, sort of; she’s seen them on TV shows—and the delicately wrought metal catches the light along its edges as she rests the thing in her palm. A five-pointed star looped in a circle, about the size of a quarter. The ring looks like something an adult would wear, broad and heavy and gunmetal grey; two flecking green stones peer out of the odd lump on the top. When she turns it, she realizes there’s old, old etching in the sides, as if to simulate scales. A snake, she thinks. Eating its own tail. She slips it onto her thumb, and it’s so loose it slides right back off again. Definitely meant for a man, not a boy like Jughead with slim writer’s fingers.

_I have to get that back from you, and I’ll answer everything then._

“Boys are _so stupid,_ ” she says to her reflection in the mirror.

Betty frowns, and then starts a chat on her phone.

 _To:_ 😈🍆Kevin🍆😈, ♕V♕, Archie

_Name of Groupchat:_ **Scooby Snax**

_I’m okay. Was trying to sleep. Didn’t manage it. Kind of still really freaked out and angry, but I’m all right. Thank you all for checking on me. Sorry I didn’t respond earlier._

A light goes on immediately across the yard, and Archie appears in his window. He’s not wearing a shirt, which a week ago would have made her palms sweaty. Now, it’s just—Archie.

He points at his phone, and a moment later, hers starts to buzz in her hand.

“Betty.” He’s looking so anxious through his window that her chest aches. “Oh my god, are you okay? I heard from my dad—”

“I’m okay,” says Betty, and comes back around to sit on the edge of her bed. She keeps her voice very low. “My parents are awake, so I have to be quiet.”

“Okay.” Archie sits too, and they’re facing each other, window to window, him in a chair, her on her mattress. Betty folds her legs up underneath her. “What the fuck happened? I just heard from my dad that the Twilight caught on fire and that they thought you were in the projection booth—”

“They think Jughead did it,” says Betty in a hissing voice, and she can _see_ his face contort when she says that, shock and anger. “But he didn’t, Archie, I was talking to him—”

“No, of course he didn’t, he wouldn’t light that place on fire—”

“He’s in the station now, and I don’t—” She takes a breath. “I don’t know what to do.”

Archie blinks at her. Archie’s never been what Betty would call _fantastic in a crisis_ , but he’s usually not _this_ quiet. Usually he’s up on his feet and raring to go, talking about justice and truth and fairness and equality. He sits on his chair, and runs a hand over his face, breathing out in a rush of static. Her phone buzzes, and when she shoots a glance at the screen, Kevin’s texted: _omg bbg don’t u dare apologize!!!! this is all a fucking nightmare_. _none of us can sleep._

“Is your dad awake?” says Betty, after a moment. Across the way, Archie frowns.

“I don’t know, maybe. Why?”

“They’re going to try and say Jughead did it,” says Betty, and her heart begins to thrum hard in her chest. “And he won’t—he’s in there _alone_ , Archie. We were both missing but _he’s_ the one they arrested and _he’s_ the one they’re going to blame when I _know_ it wasn’t his fault—”

“They would have called his dad by now,” says Archie, slowly. “He isn’t alone over there.”

Betty bites her tongue on _he was living in the Twilight._ She can’t tell Archie that, not yet. Not until she talks to Jughead. But if Jughead was—was squatting in the Twilight Drive-In, and it wasn’t just a one-night thing before the Twilight closed forever, then that says a lot about what’s going on with his parents. She says, “Veronica was there until like an hour ago and she didn’t say anything about his dad showing up.”

“ _Veronica_ was?” Archie’s eyes get wide. “Wait, what?”

“She said they threw her out because of curfew and her mom took her home, but she didn’t mention anything about Jughead’s parents showing up or _anything_.” Not that Veronica would necessarily know what Jughead’s parents looked like. _Betty_ doesn’t know that. She has vague memories of Mrs. Jones, a woman with dark hair, but not a whole lot else. “He’s _alone_ in there, Archie, and it’s not fair—”

“I’m gonna wake my dad,” he says, “I’ll be right back,” and then he puts the phone down on his desk. He doesn’t hang up. Betty hears a clattering as across the way, Archie bounces into a pair of jeans and darts out of the room, still shirtless. Her phone buzzes again. Kevin, again, out of the groupchat this time.

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈: _seriously this all seems like a fucking hoax_

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈: _somebody came in and stole my dad’s case file while we were all at the twilight??? i smell a rat_

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈: _he was out there checking on kids from rhs cause it’s likely one of them killed jason he thinks_

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈: _but like_

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈: _the fire AND the file going missing???_

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈: _it’s all starting to feel like zero dark thirty or something?????_

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈: _whoever stole it had to know he’d be at the twilight so like…………idk_

Betty: _Calm down, Kevin. The fire was an accident._

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈: _are you sure tho??? you weren’t there and like someone could have set it while jughead was out of the booth_

Betty: _I’m sure. The place was old and went up by accident. It’s been there since like the forties, it was bound to catch on fire eventually._

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈: _my dad said they’re going to get arson investigators up from portland to look into it cause we don’t have any here_

Betty: _Oh._

Betty: _Wait, someone stole the file???_

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈: _YEAH AND THEY BROKE INTO OUR FUCKING HOUSE_

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈: _i can’t sleep i’m freaking out here_

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈: _how are you so calm???_

Betty: _Practice._

Betty: _Does he really think one of us killed Jason?_

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈: _i mean isn’t that the most likely???_

Betty: _Name one kid at Riverdale you think could beat Jason Blossom to death and then shoot him in the head._

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈: _Reggie_.

Betty: _…point made._

There are shadows moving on Archie’s doorway. Betty watches as Archie and Mr. Andrews stop in the doorway—Archie still just in jeans, Mr. Andrews in something that looks like plaid pajama pants and an old T-shirt—before Archie comes to get the phone again.

“Betty?”

“I’m here,” she says, and he looks across the way.

“My dad says he’s going to call Jughead’s dad,” says Archie. “To see if he’s there. And if he’s not he’s gonna—gonna go to the station and gonna call my mom, see if she has any recommendations for an attorney in Riverdale.”

Something untwists in her gut, and twists right back up again. “He thinks Jughead will need an attorney?”

“He—” Archie lifts his head like a hunting hound, covering the base of the phone with his hand. He says something Betty can’t make out. Then he turns back to the window. “He says he thinks that they would have let him go if they weren’t arresting him, so he needs an attorney just in case. He’s calling FP now.”

Her hands are shaking. Betty twists the chain of Jughead’s necklace around her fingers. “I want to come.”

“Um—” Archie’s face twists. “My—would your parents be okay with—”

“Definitely not,” says Betty, and shuts her curtains. “Can you do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Can you get a ladder from your garage and set it up against my window?”

Archie hisses through the phone. “ _Betty_!”

“I’m coming, Archie,” she says, and strips her shirt off, tosses her phone on the bed to put on her bra. Next come shorts, bouncing until she can zip them up; a random shirt; a jacket. She picks the phone back up again. “You guys can either let me in the car or I’ll order an Uber, but I’m _coming_.”

“Fine,” says Archie, and says, “I’ll text when I set it up.”

“Archie,” says Betty, and then pauses. She doesn’t open the curtains. “Thank you. For everything.”

Archie’s quiet for a long time on the other end. Then, softly, he says, “Thank you for being my friend, Betty.”

He hangs up. Betty tells herself, firmly, that she will not cry, and goes to put up her hair.

Mr. Andrews is clearly _not_ pleased with the fact that Betty is coming out with them at roughly five in the morning, but she’s also pretty sure Archie wouldn’t have told him that she’s coming without her parents’ permission. “Morning,” he says, when Betty slides into the cab of the truck on Archie’s far side, and puts the thing back into gear. She’s always liked Archie’s dad. He seemed much more—she wasn’t sure. Much softer than her own parents. Like he actually cared about what Archie thought and wanted. It made her horribly jealous, sometimes. She wonders, a sickness inside her, if he knows anything about Geraldine Grundy. “You okay, Betty? You’ve had a hard night.”

“I’m okay, thanks, Mr. Andrews.” She shrugs deeper into her jean jacket. “I’m worried about Jughead, that’s all.”

“I called the Sheriff to confirm he’s still there, and he is. He’ll be in a separate cell from adults, that’s the law, but—” Fred folds his hands around the steering wheel. He looks grim. “Hoping we’ll find his dad there.”

Betty does not have that hope. Something in her gut is saying that Jughead is alone in there, and cold, and probably scared even if he’ll play off like he isn’t. He’s been homeless. It rises to her lips, like poison. He’s been homeless and he hadn’t _told any of them,_ and if he’s been homeless something is very, very deeply wrong, and he owes her answers but more than that he _saved her_ and she owes him this, making sure he’s okay. He’s her _friend._ She is _not_ going to leave him to sit in a cell all night because of something _she did_.

She twists the chain tighter around her fingers, and draws her knees up against her chest. Her mother would tell her to put her feet back on the floor. Fred just looks at her sideways, his mouth turning down into a deeper frown, before turning back to the road.

The sun is just barely creeping up over the edge of the horizon, casting long tongues of pink and orange and yellow across the sky, when they pull into the roughshod parking lot of the Riverdale Sheriff’s Office. Betty’s only ever been here once, to get her driver’s permit—the Riverdale DMV and the Sheriff share the same building—and she hadn’t liked it then. She likes it even less, now. The blocky concrete is stained with old thunderstorms, and there are no windows. Like a prison, she thinks, and swallows back the cold, cruel storm inside her, broiling like a hurricane.

 _Jughead’s in there._ He had to be, if they hadn’t let him go. _We’re getting him out._

Archie’s fingers are tapping a funny staccato against the fabric of his jeans as Fred puts them into park, and says, “You two are going to be quiet when we’re in there, you understand?”

Archie’s head jerks up. “Dad—”

“No, listen,” says Fred. He looks at Betty, and then at Archie, and then at Betty again, as if he knows something. “You’re worried about your friend, I get it. I called the defender that your mom suggested, Archie, and he’s on his way, but for right now I need you to let me talk to Sheriff Keller and see if I can get some sense into him. It won’t help Jughead _at all_ if either of you start screaming in here, okay? And it could get _both of you_ into just as much trouble as he’s in right now. Do you understand?”

“Dad—”

Betty seizes Archie’s wrist, and digs in with her nails. He shuts up immediately.

“Yes, Mr. Andrews,” she says.

“Good,” says Fred. He undoes his seatbelt. “In we go.”

The deputy’s desk is filled, with a woman Betty doesn’t recognize. Fred and Archie go up to her, and begin to talk in soft voices, Archie fidgeting and tapping his hand against his leg again. Betty looks at the corkboards, all the notices pinned up about drugs, wanted criminals in the state of Maine, FBI’s Most Wanted posters, notices that read _Would YOU Recognize Sex Trafficking?_ , and lost dog posters. There’s a poster (probably paid for by the Blossoms) with a picture of Jason on it, reading _REWARD: $15,000 FOR ANY INFORMATION REGARDING THE DEATH OF JASON BLOSSOM._ All the tabs have been torn off the bottom. She takes it down, folds it up, and slides it into the back pocket of her shorts.

“Betty,” says Archie, and she looks up. He’s kind of half between her and Fred Andrews, gesturing her forward with one hand. When she gets closer, he says, “They won’t let my dad see him.”

“What?”

“He’s not family,” says Archie, and Betty hisses through her teeth. “We tried FP again, but—”

“FP?”

“His dad.”

Betty wants to commit _murder._ She says, “Is he under arrest?”

“They won’t say.”

“They can’t keep him if he’s not under arrest—”

“They can,” says Fred, coming closer to them. “Or they’ll say they can. Best option is to try FP again and wait for the attorney Mary recommended. Do either of you want coffee?”

Archie makes a face. Betty thanks Mr. Andrews, and he wanders off to the little machine the cops keep in the waiting area, fumbling a few dollars out of his wallet to feed into the slot.

“God, this is a nightmare.” Archie sinks down into one of the chairs next to her, scraping his nails against his scalp and then the back of his neck. “Jug wouldn’t _do this_. I don’t know why they’re keeping him so long.”

“Who knows,” says Betty. She bounces her leg rather than dig her nails into her palms. She could, she thinks, in a cold part of her mind, break the wall down if she wanted. She’s never _tried_ to rip something down as big as a wall, but if she got mad enough—she _did_ rip the tree apart. She could rip the wall down and let him out. Then, of course, she’d be experimented on for the rest of her _life_ , but at least Jughead would be out. “Being spiteful?”

A pair of deputies walk in with a long-haired man in a South Side Serpent jacket, clearly drunk. Archie tracks them with his eyes as the three of them go by, fidgeting the whole while.

“Archie,” says Betty. “Does your dad know?”

He looks at her, then. The corners of his mouth go tight. He has a hickey on his neck, Betty notices. A fresh one. That’s probably why he wasn’t at the Twilight. He was with _Grundy._ She takes a deep, shaking breath. It would be easy— _so, so easy_ —to go right up to the counter and say _I want to report a rape._ This fragile peace between her and Archie can only last so long, has only come about because of Jughead. If she turned on him, he’d bite, like a cornered animal. Carefully, he says, “Don’t tell my dad.”

Over by the coffee machine, Mr. Andrews is whistling something off-key. Betty rubs her thumb against the chain around her neck, and says, “I’m not going to right now. But after this, we _will_ talk about it.”

 _Not right now_ doesn’t mean _not ever_ , and they both know it. He hisses through his teeth, but before he can say anything else Fred’s walked back over with two cups of coffee, one of which he gives to Betty. “No creamer,” he says. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry,” says Betty, and sips at it anyway. Her entire mouth burns at the sour coffee, but she needs _something_ in her stomach. “Doesn’t matter.”

“I’m trying FP again,” says Fred. “He should _be here_.”

He doesn’t sound angry, exactly. More tired. More _resigned_ , as if this is typical behavior, as if it’s normal that Jughead’s father doesn’t pick up the phone or realize that his son is in jail or that something has even happened at all. She's beginning to think that there's a lot more going on with Jughead that she hasn't noticed. Betty keeps twisting away at the sleeves of her jacket, mechanically drinks the coffee until the cup is empty and she can put it in the trash. Sunlight creeps across the linoleum floor of the sheriff’s station. The group chat keeps going off—Kevin and Veronica, tossing theories back and forth, updating everyone—but Betty stays mostly quiet, leaving Archie to let them know what’s happening as she twines the chain of Jughead’s necklace around her fingers.

The attorney that Archie’s mom recommended turns up within twenty minutes of their arrival at the sheriff’s station. He’s short, scruffy; he looks like he hasn’t shaved in a month, and the tie around his neck is rumpled. Still, he has a smart-looking briefcase, which he puts down at his feet as he holds out his hand to Fred and says, “Daniel Webster.”

“Mr. Webster,” says Fred, and shakes it. “Fred Andrews.”

“Mary’s husband,” says Mr. Webster. His eyes are a piercing blue, and skate over Betty and Archie. “Are these your kids?”

“The boy is.”

“I’m Betty Cooper,” says Betty, and sticks out her hand too. Mr. Webster blinks a bit, but shakes her hand. His fingers are soft, but his palm is all callus.

“Nice to meet you,” he says. He looks at her for a moment, as if he’s seeing something that’s not there. Then he says, “Sorry it took me so long to get here. The bridge from Greendale was closed, I had to wait for the barrier to lift. Where’s my client?”

“His father’s hopefully on his way,” says Fred, and then takes Mr. Webster aside to explain everything. Betty trails after them. “I’ve been leaving messages. There was an accident at a drive-in movie theatre—”

“The Twilight,” says Mr. Webster. He looks at Betty for a moment, and then turns back to Fred. “Tom Keller’s still the Sheriff?”

“Yes, but—”

“ _Tom_ ,” bellows Mr. Webster, and breezes right through the door that reads _Attorneys and Sheriff Staff Only_ by the front desk. Betty catches, “ _What fresh hell have you decided to do with my clients now_ —” before the door swings shut again. Fred looks a little shell-shocked; he stares at the shut door, then looks back at Archie and Betty.

“He was one of Mary’s teachers,” says Fred, after a moment. “At Columbia. He was—very famous as a defense attorney.”

“Infamous, more like,” says the deputy at the desk, and then turns away when Fred shoots her a glare.

“He’ll help,” says Fred, to Betty and Archie. “I’m sure.”

“Dad,” says Archie. “Where the hell is FP?”

“I don’t know, kid.”

“If he’s—”

Betty tunes them out. She sinks back down into her seat, and puts her head in her hands.

Somehow, the waiting is even worse now than it was before. It’s a full forty minutes, and the sun has fully risen, by the time the door swings open, and—she bolts to her feet and moves before she thinks, brushing past Mr. Webster to crash into Jughead like this is some stupid movie. Jughead’s _freezing_ , and in a flash she remembers he’d left his jacket out in the woods, all burnt—

“Betty,” he says. He sounds surprised. “Archie—what are you doing here?”

She balls up her hand, and taps him once in the chest, not hard, just—pointed. He catches her hand to keep her from whacking him again. “Getting you _out,_ you idiot—”

“Did you think we were going to leave you here?” Archie says, flinging one arm around Jughead’s shoulders and squeezing. They’re squashed together, the three of them, and Betty realizes that Jughead’s folded his fingers around her fist. “Jesus, Jug—”

“I don’t know, man, it’d get me out of gym, _sorry, Coach, Jughead got arrested, does he have to run laps in his cell or_ —”

“Don’t joke about that,” Betty snaps. Jughead looks down at her, and seems to grasp he’s still holding onto her hand, letting go immediately.

“Betty, you think I’m going to get arrested and not take advantage of not going to class?”

“Betty Cooper,” says Sheriff Keller, and they all freeze. She hadn’t noticed the Sheriff coming out of the back, not focused like she was, but now she’s _cold_. Betty drags Jughead back closer to her, and puts herself between them, which is stupid—she’s not light, not small, but to someone like the Sheriff, she’d be easy to knock over like a bowling pin if he _really_ wanted to get at Jughead again. Then Archie steps up next to her, and Fred, just a little behind them, and at her back is Jughead, tips of his fingers resting against the middle of her spine. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Betty presses her lips together. She’s never been _scared_ of Kevin’s dad before. Intimidated by him, sure—he’s the _Sheriff_ —but never _scared_. There’s something in his face now, though, that makes her think he might be angry enough that he could hit her. It’s gone almost as soon as she sees it, like a dream. “Hi, Sheriff Keller.”

His mouth is paper thin, just for a moment. Then he says, “Been a while since I’ve seen you. You still spending time with my son?”

“Yes, sir, every day.” Pretty much every day.

“Do your parents know you’re here?”

“Yes,” says Betty. She has the feeling that the lie shows plain on her face, so she crosses her fingers behind her back. “I told them.”

“Don’t think I won’t be calling to check,” says Sheriff Keller, mildly. He turns his gaze on Jughead. “You—”

“My client is done speaking with you, Sheriff,” says Mr. Webster. He tucks a hand into his pocket, and withdraws a tattered looking card. “If you want to _schedule an interview_ regarding _anything_ that’s discovered with the Twilight, then you call me, not him. And the next time you haul a minor into interrogation without someone from social services or a parent or guardian present in the room—”

“He’s fifteen, _J.D.B. v. North Carolina_ —”

“ _J.D.B._ states that a child’s age has to be taken into account in determining whether they need to be Mirandized,” snaps Mr. Webster. Betty has a funny leaping feeling in her stomach, like she’s stepped off the edge of the world. “It _doesn’t_ mean you can haul a _fifteen-year-old boy_ in and ask him any questions you want about something _without any cause or due process_. The _instant_ he asked for a lawyer you should have shut the interrogation down, you’ll be lucky if my client doesn’t want to sue you—”

“Goddammit, Webster—”

“Don’t fight me, Keller,” Mr. Webster snaps. “We’ve fought before and it hasn’t ended well for you. If you’re going to charge my client, charge him. Until then, I’m taking this boy home.”

Sheriff Keller turns scarlet. He turns, stiff as a robot, and marches back into the depths of the station without a goodbye. Betty, Jughead, and Archie all exchange wide-eyed looks. Archie mouths, _holy shit_.

“We’re leaving,” says Mr. Webster. “Come on.”

Jughead looks—shaken. Like something’s shifted. Betty, standing close to him, puts her arm around him for just a second, and she _feels_ him jump before he looks down at her upturned face. His mouth twists, half a smile, half something else. He drapes his arm around her shoulders, tugs her close enough to hurt, and then lets go.

“Yeah,” he says.

When they make it out to the parking lot, FP Jones still has not turned up.

.

.

.

Mr. Webster drives Jughead home to Sunnyside. “We need to have a talk about how to move forward,” he says, when Betty goes to ride in Mr. Webster’s tiny, beat-up car alongside Jughead. “Attorney client privilege, I’m afraid, sorry.” Jughead nods at her when she casts him a look, and so she gets back in the truck with Archie and Fred, feeling looser but still not quite relaxed, twitching with leftover energy. It’s almost seven in the morning when they make it back to Elm Street, and Fred drops Betty off right in front of her house, raising his eyebrows at her.

“Something you want to mention?” says Fred, in a wry voice.

Hal is waiting on the front porch. His arms are crossed tight, and he looks—Betty has _never_ seen him look this angry. Betty swallows, and then pins a smile to her cheeks. “Nope! Everything’s good, Mr. Andrews. Thank you for helping Jughead.”

“Thank _you_ , Betty,” says Fred, still wry. He bumps Archie with his elbow. “For letting Archie know about it.”

“Of course.” She steps back, into the carefully trimmed lawn in front of the Cooper house. “Have a good day.”

“You too,” says Archie, and then cranks the window back up so he can talk to his dad. The truck pulls away, and into the driveway beside theirs, grumbling like an old man.

Betty turns.

Hal doesn’t say anything. He keeps his arms folded, his eyes hard, as Betty comes up the stairs onto the porch, hands in her pockets. Her arms feel like noodles; her head, on the other hand, feels clear for the first time in days. It’s not hurting anymore, and despite her lack of sleep, she’s almost _vibrating._

“I had to go help him,” says Betty.

Hal grits his jaw. He says, “Elizabeth—”

“Dad, Jughead is my _friend_ —”

“We’ve told you, _repeatedly_ , that that boy is trouble; you need to stay as far away from him as—”

“ _He’s my friend,_ ” Betty says, loud enough that across the street, Mrs. Myerson lifts her head from watering her gardenias. “You can’t make me _choose different friends_ —”

“Keep your voice down—”

“I _won’t_ if you keep—”

“Inside,” says Hal, opening the door, “ _now_ ,” but Betty doesn’t move.

“Jughead is my friend,” says Betty. “That’s _not changing_. I don’t _care_ what grudge match you and Mom have against him and his dad—”

“ _You don’t know what that family is like_ ,” says Hal, and Mrs. Myerson lifts her head again. "You don't know what they _do—_ "

“I know what Jughead’s like, and I’m not _stupid_ —”

“Betty, you’re _fifteen years old_ , I don’t expect you to understand, I expect you to _listen_ —”

“I’m almost sixteen,” says Betty, “and I can _pick my own friends_.”

Hal takes a deep breath, in and out. He says, “Give me your phone.”

Betty claps it into his hand.

“Go to your room,” says Hal. “We’ll talk about this more later, when you’re prepared to be rational.”

“Tough luck, _Dad_ ,” she says. “Because I’m not changing my mind.”

His face turns thunderous. “Room,” he says. “Now.”

“Just because you couldn’t control Polly doesn’t mean you get to _run my life_ like I’m some kind of Barbie doll—”

“ _Now._ ”

Betty slams the door to her bedroom as hard as she can. When Alice’s voice echoes down the hall in a _what the hell is going on in this house_ , she shuts her eyes, and finally lets herself breathe.

.

.

.

“Sisters of Quiet Mercy Group Home, to whom may I direct you?”

“Gideon Woodhouse, please.”

“May I ask who’s speaking?”

“Tom Keller.”

“Hold, please.”

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

“Gideon Woodhouse, who am I speaking to?”

“Gideon, it’s Tom.”

“Tom Keller, this is a nice surprise. I hope you’ve been keeping well. We missed you at last months’ Order meeting.”

“Yeah, well, night shift.”

“God bless you for being so dedicated to your job. Though I have to say, everyone’s dying to know what’s going on with the Blossom killing.”

“You know I can’t talk about an ongoing investigation, Gideon.”

“Of course. Though it’s no great loss for the town. As the Good Lord proclaims in Exodus, _Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live._ ”

“Look, that’s not why I called you today, Gideon. I think there’s a situation over here. I could use some better-trained eyes.”

“About the Blossoms?”

“No. There was a fire last night at the old drive-in, and we picked up a kid that looked good for it—history of arson, suspicious behavior, everything else—but there’s just—there’s a feeling about this whole situation that I can’t shake.”

“You think it was witchcraft?”

“Can’t say for sure. I don’t have proof. Just—instincts.”

“We have our instincts for a reason.”

“So you’ll come out?”

“Unfortunately I can’t. Not personally. But I have a feeling I know someone who would love to come out to act as a second pair of eyes. Jerry’s out hunting solo, and Tabs is getting stir-crazy hanging around the group home alone.”

“Mehitable?”

“Is that a problem?”

“No, of course not. Just—she’s a little young.”

“You’d be surprised. Don’t worry, Keller. Whatever role you think would be best for her, she’ll do it. She’s good at her job.”

“I’m not doubting that.”

“Of course not. Now—what boy are you talking about here?”

“Jones,” says Tom. “Jughead Jones.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daniel Webster is the attorney that defended Sabrina in the trial in S1 of CAOS!!!!! AND I LOVE HIM!!!!!


	10. Wicked, Wild Ways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Betty gets to ask the questions. 
> 
> [Part Two of Chapter Five. Overlaps with Chapter Five: Heart of Darkness.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for controlling parents stuff, typical Cooper fare. 
> 
> Also, as an FYI: I have two more chapters I have prepared, but I'm starting my bar prep program on Monday, so I probably won't be able to update every day anymore, oops. Sorry, y'all.

Betty is grounded.

It’s a weird experience for her. Yeah, she was kind of grounded after the semi-formal—she back-talked her mom, and went running off into the woods, of course she was confined to the house after that—but it hadn’t _actually_ been so clear cut as _you’re grounded young lady go to your room we’ll talk again when you’re ready to be reasonable._

Betty’s always been the good girl. Sometimes _Polly_ would get grounded, especially after she’d started dating Jason, but never, ever Betty. Betty was the one who was always snapping to do chores as soon as she was asked; Betty was the one who got her homework done on time; Betty was the one who got straight As and never talked back.

Betty is now _grounded_.

She is not allowed to have her phone. She is not allowed to go online. If she is online, it is for homework only, and on her dad’s computer so he can check her search history. Facebook, Tweeter, and all other social media sites are banned. And there are other new rules, too. Her parents have installed a locational app on her phone, and she is to keep it on her at all times when she’s not in the house. If her parents text her, and she doesn’t text back in ten minutes, they’ll turn on the locational app on her phone to make sure she’s where she’s supposed to be. If she _is_ in the house, the phone goes in a locked drawer in her dad’s desk in the basement. She will be driven back and forth to school by one or both of her parents, and no one else. She will only attend school, River Vixen practice, and any _Blue & Gold _things she needs to do, though that’s on the stipulation that she not leave the school.

She will not be allowed at Pop’s; she will not be allowed to go to the library; she cannot go on her morning runs. The only way she’s allowed out of the house for something other than school is for church, which—and she’s pretty sure this is just her dad deciding this—is now mandatory on Sunday mornings _and_ Wednesday nights, coincidentally the only weeknight she doesn’t have Vixens practice. She is, in effect, on lockdown until she _proves she can be trusted again_ (her mom’s words), and Betty is _pissed._

The worst thing is she’s not even all that pissed about the new rules in and of themselves, because honestly she _gets it_. She scared the living shit out of her parents at the Twilight, and then she snuck out to the sheriff’s station without their permission; of course they’re going to get bad about restrictions. They did this with Polly, too, when she started talking back. What she’s pissed about is that the entire weekend is spent in a cold war with not one but _both_ of her parents—something she’s _never_ experienced—about her friends.

Alice has always been the one to get nasty about Archie, and Jughead, and Veronica. It’s been normal as long as Betty can remember. Her mother’s had a grudge against the Andrews family and the Joneses for—forever, it seems like—and Veronica, even as a newcomer, isn’t immune from it either. _The Andrews are liars, the Joneses are trash, the Lodges are criminals. I thought you were smarter than this, Betty_. Kevin is the only friend Betty has that _doesn’t_ get shafted by her mother.

Her dad has always stayed out of it until now, kind of letting Alice have her head, but now _Hal_ is the one coming in her room to sit on her bed and say things like _I really don’t think these boys have had a good influence on you_ and _the Sheriff is pretty sure he’s a criminal, Betty_ and _I don’t understand why you want to spend time with someone from the South Side_ and _I don’t want you to end up in trouble like your sister_ , which of course spurs Betty into saying _well what’s so bad about the South Side_ and _what kind of trouble is Polly in anyway_ and _you both are keeping secrets from me about my sister and you’re hypocrites for keeping things from me_ , which results in screaming arguments between her, her mother, and her father, and more doors being slammed in her face. Not all of them are metaphorical.

In between the arguments and the fighting and the cold shoulders and all the rest, Betty thinks. She writes a list of questions down— _what did you mean coven, how did you create a transposition door, is there really magic, do you think I might be—_ and then shreds them in her dad’s office shredder, because the last thing she needs is either of her parents thinking she’s _insane_. She twines her fingers through the chains around her neck—Jughead’s necklace sometimes, the crucifix others—and she sits and looks out her window onto the street and she thinks about what she should say. If she had access to the internet she’d be researching circles and covens and magic, but all she can do is think and scream. She can’t even go on a _run._ She has so much nervous energy in her gut she’s surprised she’s not throwing up again.

The one bonus of the weekend is that burning down the Twilight seems to have sapped all her power. No matter how mad she gets at her parents, there’s not one single molecule of pressure in her head to worry about. Small blessings.

Monday arrives with a groan. She hasn’t been driven to school since she was about thirteen. Betty sits in the front passenger side, chin in hand, watching as the neighborhood goes by. It’s less than a half an hour to Riverdale High on foot from her house, but in the car it barely takes five minutes. Hal fiddles with the radio at the school gate, finally settling on country music while cars trickle into the parking lot. She could get out here, she thinks, but her father will snap. He wants to drop her off right at the front doors, and _watch_ her go inside. Like she’s a criminal.

“Betty,” he says. “You have your phone?”

“My leash, you mean?” says Betty, not looking around.

“Elizabeth.”

“It’s in my jacket.”

“Homework?”

“Yes.”

“Lunch?”

“Yes,” says Betty.

Hal’s quiet for a moment. “I know this seems harsh, sweetheart—”

“You put a locational app on my _phone_ ,” says Betty. “What’s next? Reading my _diary_? Don’t think I don’t know Mom does that when she gets bored.” It’s why she hasn’t written anything other than to-do lists in hers since she turned twelve and started levitating things with her brain. “Jesus, Dad—”

“Don’t take His name in vain,” Hal snaps.

“ _Sorry_.” She takes a breath through her nose. “Harsh is taking my phone away. You and Mom are _stalking me_.”

“I’m not going to explain our decisions as your parents until you indicate you’re mature enough to talk about it reasonably and respectfully,” says Hal, all mild, all at once.

“ _Reasonably—_ I went to get my _friend_ out of _jail_ for something he _didn’t do_.” She looks at him out of the corner of her eye. Hal is staring straight ahead out of the windshield, calm as anything. “I was in a _police station,_ Mr. Andrews and Sheriff Keller were there the whole time, it’s not like I snuck out to buy _crack_ or something—”

“I’m not debating about this, Elizabeth.” Two cars to go until she can get out. Betty hauls her backpack up into her lap. “You snuck out of your room without permission, got into a car with a relative stranger—”

“Fred Andrews is our _neighbor_ , he’s _Archie’s dad_ —”

“—and I had to get a call from Sheriff Keller at not even seven o’clock in the morning so he could let me know my daughter was mouthing off to his deputies—”

“I didn’t even talk to his deputies!”

“—after everything that happened at the Twilight—”

“—which was an _accident_ —”

Hal hits the heel of his palm against the steering wheel, and Betty jumps. She’s not sure why. It’s not like her dad has ever hit her. The force of the strike makes her bones hurt. Another car pulls away in front of them. Hal takes a breath, and then eases up on the brakes, letting the car inch forward, bit by bit. He says, “We’re trying to keep you from going down the wrong path, Betty. You need to trust that we know what we’re doing, as your parents—”

“Yeah,” says Betty. _Don’t back down. Don’t give in._ “And if I don’t, you’ll send me away like Polly, right?”

“Betty—”

There. They’re at the drop off point. Betty undoes her seatbelt. “I have to go, Dad. Vixens practice starts in five minutes, and I can’t be late.”

Hal says, “Be here at five on the dot, Elizabeth.”

“It’s not like I have a choice,” she says, and slams the car door.

Even with the number of cars outside the school, the halls are mostly empty. The football team is probably already out on the field doing drills. Down at the end of the hall she catches sight of the Vixens, all already in their practice uniforms; she waves at Veronica, who mouths _hurry up_ , and then immediately changes direction, aiming directly for the _Blue & Gold_.

Jughead’s settled at one of the desks. She’s pretty sure he had to have picked the lock—she’s the only one with the key, but the door’s open when she comes in, and his back is turned to the hallway. He’s typing away, headphones not hiding the pound of music, and—some knot of tension eases in her chest—it seems like his clothes are at least clean. Betty clears her throat, and then, when there’s no motion from him, she shuts the door, takes his necklace off, and pools it on the desk next to his hand.

Jughead jumps, and yanks his headphones off. She thinks he might leap out of his chair. “Betty—”

“That’s yours,” she says, softly. “Sorry I didn’t give it back when—”

 _When we were in the station._ She can’t bring herself to say it.

He doesn’t look at the necklace, not right away. His hand closes on it though, automatically. “I texted you,” he says, and he searches her face. “After Webster left.”

“My parents took my phone away,” she says. She’s tempted to lean over his shoulder, look at the screen, but it’s _Jughead._ She’d be lucky if he doesn’t slam the laptop shut. “And my laptop, no internet privileges until further notice. What are you working on? Your novel?”

“An article,” he says. “Actually. About the fire. Betty—”

“I have Vixens practice,” says Betty, and Jughead’s face—twists. Not angry, but just—closing off when she didn’t realize he’d opened up. He closes his mouth. “I’m kind of going to be late as it is. But—but can we talk at lunch? Please? About—” She gestures vaguely at the room. “What happened. At the Twilight. I have questions.” 

He looks at her, and for a second she feels—flustered. She’s pretty sure nobody’s ever looked at her the way Jughead is looking at her right now, like he’s desperately seeking something. Approval, maybe. Some hint of—something. He says, “Only if you buy me lunch first.”

She can’t help it. Betty laughs, and the tension in Jughead’s body vanishes immediately. He leans further back in his chair, the corners of his mouth tweaking up, as she says, “Good to know your time in jail hasn’t changed you.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” he says, dry as a communion wafer. “There’s only so much time you can spend in a small box with no windows before it starts to get to your head.”

She knows it’s supposed to be a joke. Her heart just about cracks in two anyway. Betty reaches out, and squeezes his shoulder. He doesn’t knock her away. “You’re okay?”

“Yeah.”

Betty lifts an eyebrow at him. Jughead sighs. Without quite looking at her, he says, “Just. Tired. Frustrated.”

“Yeah.” She squeezes his shoulder again. “I’ll buy you lunch. And then we’ll talk?”

“Yeah.” He flexes his hands, spreading out his fingers, and then adds, “We’ll talk.”

Betty hesitates. Then she leans down, presses a light kiss to his cheek—she can’t help it; she _worried_ —and leaves before she can see his reaction.

The day seems to move like molasses. Vixens practice is what it always is—Cheryl snarking about no one being up to her standards; Veronica snarking back because she can never let a challenge go unanswered; Betty struggling to keep her nose out of it. The one difference is that people start whispering as she comes in, and Veronica gives her a big hug when she joins the group, saying, “I’m so glad you didn’t burn to death.” Even if Veronica’s been weird with her the last few days, it’s nice to know that her relief at the Twilight was genuine. Veronica _does_ care about her, in her own way, and Betty—who has never really had female friends outside of Polly—relaxes into that care like a plant being settled into a new pot. Even if it comes with a lot of awkward stares and confusion.

Her classes, though, are awful. Students whisper when she comes in, behind their hands or not. It’s the first time Betty’s been the center of attention just for herself, not for her sister or for some article of her mother’s or something else going on with Jason and Polly, and she’s not sure she likes it very much.

Archie isn’t in any of her AP courses. It’s a small blessing. It means they don’t have to be awkwardly not speaking to each other again. They’re all texting in the Scooby Snax group—even Jughead, who, she finds, has been added to it by Kevin—but Betty has the feeling that if she tried to talk to Archie right now, he’d turn and run the other way. Jughead, on the other hand, is in _all_ of her classes, aside from AP Psych in first period; his eyes go wide again when she comes to sit with him in the back row, but he nudges his chair sideways to give her more space anyway. Kevin and Veronica sit in front of them like a pair of bodyguards, giving people stinkeye if they gossip too loud. Considering she can’t remember the last time Kevin and Jughead spoke, and she _knows_ Jughead and Veronica are at odds over something they won’t talk about, Betty can’t help but think they’re doing it more for her sake. Betty’s being protective of Jughead, and Kevin and Veronica are being protective of her. At least it’s keeping the peace.

Partway through AP Lit, as Kevin stands up to read the part of John Proctor in _The Crucible_ , something nudges the back of her hand. Jughead’s notebook. In the corner, in his tight scrawl, he’s written, _Are your hands okay?_

Betty glances up. Mrs. Wright is paying attention to Kevin, and Kevin solely; that’s the whole thing with Kevin, when he really wants to grab people’s focus. As an actor, he’s really quite good at it. Betty flexes her fingers, and then writes on the edge of Jughead’s book, _They just got a little scorched on closing night._

Jughead sketches out a frowny face, tapping his pencil against the paper. It leaves little dots behind, like a strange constellation. Then: _I’m sorry._

 _It’s not your fault,_ writes Betty. Suddenly her heart is pounding. Only Polly has _ever_ known about this. She’d almost forgotten, in the heat of Jughead’s arrest, that Jughead had _seen her break a tree_. He’d seen and not questioned it, not in the slightest. She writes, _It’s mine._

Jughead snaps her a look. All he writes is, _Aloe helps._

She’s been using lotion, mainly. Her mother would notice if the aloe in the fridge started to empty out. Still, Betty draws a smiley, and then writes, _They’re way better than they were. Just feels like a bad sunburn._

Then it’s Betty’s turn to stand up and read. When she sits back down again, there’s no response from Jughead on paper. Still, she can feel the weight of his eyes on her all through class, and when they’re collecting their things to go, Jughead sticks to her side like a burr.

She tries to focus on classes in the morning. It still feels as though it’s been a century by the time the lunch bell goes off. Veronica’s the first out of her seat in Chem, stretching her arms high up over her head. “I am _seriously_ craving samosas.”

“Oo, UberEats?” Kevin’s at her side in an instant. “There’s this cool place on Main—”

“We’ll catch up,” says Betty, and hitches her backpack over her shoulder. “We have some stuff to work out with the _Blue & Gold_.”

She feels rather than sees Jughead duck his head to hide whatever look is on his face.

“Oh,” says Veronica. Her eyes fix on Jughead, and hold. “ _Really_.”

Jughead glares back through his hair.

“Guys,” says Betty after a moment. “Seriously. Can you stop?”

Jughead does not have the grace to look chagrined. Veronica, on the other hand, sighs and stares up at the ceiling. “Betty—”

“We have to go over some stuff in layout, and it’s fiddly, it’ll take a while.” Betty hooks her thumb through the belt loop of her jeans. “So.”

“Seriously, Betty, with the work all day?” Veronica pokes her tongue out. “All work and no play makes Jill a _very_ dull girl, you know.”

“We’ll be fine,” says Betty. “We’ll see you guys in Bio.”

“Fine, if you _must_ abandon me for Holden Caulfield, then at least have the decency to play safe, won’t you? The last thing we need in this town is more drama.”

“ _Veronica_ ,” says Betty, and pretends the heat in her face is from standing up too fast. “It’s not like that—”

“Whatever, B.” Veronica blows a kiss. “Get thee gone and work on your magnum opus.”

She’s gone before Betty can say anything else. Kevin follows after her, waggling his eyebrows.

“God,” says Betty. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” says Jughead. He coughs, and then adds, “I get the feeling that Veronica has three times the amount of hormones as the rest of us.”

She almost chokes. Betty covers her mouth with one hand—Jughead peers at her through his bangs, and grins a little—before she says, “You’re probably not wrong.”

“New York water must be special,” he says, and Betty starts giggling so loudly that people look around at the pair of them. Jughead’s neck goes a bit red.

“Come on,” he says. “You’re still buying me lunch.”

They head to the cafeteria first, but only to buy lunch. They don’t take trays. Betty mourns a little for what little leftover money she’d had after LA when Jughead gets approximately half his weight in burgers and fries, but she _had_ promised, and she’d gotten him arrested; this is the least she can do. Once they have their food—in a bag, not on trays—they wander out to the football field. No one’s out here except Dilton Doiley, who turns and quick-marches back to the building as soon as he sees them. Jughead walks up the bleachers to the top row, and then sits with his food in his lap. Betty sits next to him, locking her hands around her knees and looking out over the grass. It’s quieter out here, she thinks. Even with all the bullshit going down around them, it’s nice to just be out in the wind.

“So,” says Jughead, after he’s inhaled two of his burgers and seems to have slightly more color in his face. “I’m kind of surprised.”

Betty arches her eyebrows at him. “What about?”

“That you haven’t chained me up in your basement trying to get answers.” He cocks one eyebrow right back at her. “Where’d those reporter instincts go?”

She rolls her eyes. “Kind of hard to follow your instincts when your mom has _you_ locked up in your room. I couldn’t even go into my bathroom without a fight starting, it was a nightmare.”

He sucks ketchup off one of his fingers. “Mama Cooper in fine form, then.”

“My dad was worse, somehow.” She props her chin in one hand. “He has us going to church twice a week now, like he did when Polly first started going out with Jason. That’s how you _know_ it’s bad.”

“Ah,” says Jughead, delicately. “ _My Little Nunnery: Catholicism is Magic._ ”

She snorts. “He wishes.”

Down on the field, a couple of freshmen come zooming over the grass, kicking a soccer ball between them. Practicing for soccer tryouts, probably. The Riverdale soccer team is tiny, always loses, and, always on the verge of being cut from the roster, but there’s a dedicated, almost cult-like following of it all the same.

“What’s going on with you and Veronica?” Betty asks, unable to help herself.

Jughead chokes on his bite of burger. With a tremendous effort, he swallows, and then says, “Uh.”

“And don’t give me the bullshit excuse of _we’re not fighting, Betty_ , because that’s what Veronica did and I’m not stupid.” She fluffs the end of her ponytail. “You guys fight _constantly_.”

He takes another bite of burger. It’s only after he’s swallowed that he says, “Comes with the territory of what we are.”

“Well, that’s unbearably cryptic.”

Jughead scratches the hair at the back of his head, shoving his beanie up into an awkward tilt. “It’s like—an old family thing. Sort of.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Like the Montagues and Capulets?”

“Ugh, no.” He scratches his head again. “I—this is hard to talk about.”

“Which part?”

He gestures at the field with his half-eaten hamburger. “All of it.”

Betty twines her fingers together against her knees. Then, she turns to him, folding her leg half over the bleacher seat and tucking a flyaway back behind her ear. “Would it be easier if I asked more questions?”

Jughead doesn’t look at her for a long time. He props his bootheels up against the next bench down, kind of dipping his toes up and down. He looks at them, not at her, his elbows tight in against his sides, as he says, “I don’t know.”

She hesitates. When she lays a hand on his back, he doesn’t flinch away.

“You can trust me,” she says. Jughead looks at her then, his eyes a little wide. Betty takes a breath, and lets it out. “You—know that. Right?”

His throat works. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.” Jughead darts another look at her. He shoves the rest of the burger in his mouth, chewing methodically. Then, staring at the steel toes of his boots, he says, “I trust you, Betty.”

Betty’s smile quivers on her lips. She’s _stupidly_ emotional, she thinks, and wipes her eyes. This isn’t a time to be on the verge of tears. She sighs, and then—carefully—she puts her head on his shoulder. Jughead goes stiff as a board all at once, but he doesn’t flinch; he sits there, and little by little the tension goes out of him. After a minute’s gone by, he’s loose against the bleachers.

“Tell me,” she says. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Jughead takes a rattling breath.

“When I was a little kid,” he says, “my mom would tell me and Jellybean this story before we went to sleep. Jellybean couldn’t have been more than a year old, and that meant I must have been about—seven, I think. I can’t remember my dad ever being around when she told it, so she must have waited until he was out of the house. It was about the Greendale Thirteen. The witches, back in the 1690s, who like—were caught and hanged during the Greendale Witch Trials. She’d tell us all their names, and all of this—awful stuff about how they died, with their eyes popping and necks cracking and all of that, and then at the end she’d say, _And they did it to keep the rest of the witches of Greendale safe. So they could live in peace._ ”

He flexes his hands.

“When we got older she used to tell us that after the Greendale Thirteen died the Order of Innocents—that’s witch hunters—stuck around outside of Greendale to try and see if they could find any evidence of other witches in the town.” He takes a breath. “So families like—like the Kinkles stayed from 1692 all the way down to today to kind of like…keep watch, and on the other side of the river from Greendale a group of hunters built a fort, to protect the community from raiding Indigenous peoples and from—witches. In the forties, when the Blossoms turned up, the fort had kind of fallen apart, but the—Order—stuck around even after the town got founded in ’47. And—so did the rest of us.”

Jughead pauses, then, as if he’s waiting for her to leap up and say _no that’s impossible_ and stomp off down the bleachers. Betty doesn’t move. Her heart’s hammering like a rabbit’s against her ribs.

“Part of the reason that there were so many witches in Greendale is that the place is—touched.” He says it oddly, as if it’s the wrong word. “Riverdale’s the same. This place, it’s—special, to witches. There are energies, here, in—in the trees and the river, that are important to them.” Jughead hesitates, and then says, “Important to us. The Uktena people say it’s because the Sweetwater is where the Creator began their work, and the Greendale witches say it’s because Greendale is where Lucifer fell and struck the earth when God tossed him out of heaven—”

“Seriously?” says Betty, unable to help herself. Jughead shrugs one shoulder.

“I don’t know enough about the Churches of Darkness to say it’s not true. Maybe it is. But—either way, there’s a lot of energy here.”

Betty bites the inside of her cheek, hard enough to bleed. _Satan. Churches of Darkness._ “So witches are…Satanists?”

“Not all witches,” says Jughead immediately. “Some are. Some are—like the Circle.”

“The Circle of the Snake.”

“Yeah.” He’s tensing up again. Carefully, Jughead pulls his necklace out from under his shirt, and cups the pendants in his hand, the ring, the pentacle. “The Uktena worshipped a two-headed serpent as part of their tradition, but—that’s not where the Circle comes from, not exactly. Over the years in Greendale there were—people who were excommunicated from the Greendale coven, or people who wanted to strike out alone. Pagans.”

“Pagans?”

“People who don’t worship Satan,” he says. “Witches who aren’t—who don’t sign their souls away to Lucifer, or people who work against dark magic. People who worship older gods.”

“Older gods,” Betty echoes. “Like—like Zeus?”

She feels, rather than sees, Jughead’s mouth go crooked. “Older,” he says. “Anyway, the Circle of the Snake is more—we’re more varied.”

“Like?”

“Some of us—” He shifts again, awkwardly. “Some of us were excommunicated from Greendale’s coven, like…like my mom. They still worship Satan, but—less strictly. Some are remaining Uktena people, who worship the two-headed serpent and continue Indigenous traditions. They’re more—apart, from the rest of the coven. They keep to themselves. Which is their right, considering how white people have treated the Uktena here.”

Betty lifts her head. “What?”

Jughead says, “That’s a _much_ longer story than we can get into right now. Lunch is only forty minutes.”

She grumbles a little, and then rests her head on his shoulder again. It seems to be helping him talk, not seeing her face.

“Some of us worship the Green Man and the Maiden-Mother-Crone triad. Some worship Santa Muerte, Saint Death. Some—” And here he hesitates again, shoulders stiffening up “—some worship magic itself.”

“Magic,” Betty echoes. “So—magic is real.”

Jughead turns. The edge of his jaw brushes the top of her scalp, just slightly. “You are _really_ not taking this like I thought you would,” he says, in a voice that’s gone hoarse. “I figured there’d be a lot more—”

He stops.

“A lot more yelling?”

“Yeah.”

“I think—” She swallows, then, and sits up. “I think some—some part of me—knew some of this. Somehow.”

Jughead searches her face, eyes darting back and forth from her brow to her nose to her jaw and back up again.

“So,” she says. “Magic is—how you managed to get us to the forest, out of the Twilight.”

“It’s a transposition door,” he says. “It’s—it’s basically asking for two doorways to be connected. It’s kind of complicated.”

“And while we were in the woods, you knew we had to go back because—”

“Um, someone told me.” Jughead’s neck flares red. Then, he darts a look around, dipping his hand into the inner pocket of his coat. What emerges is _not_ what she figures it would be. She thinks—maybe she’s read too much _Harry Potter_ —but she thinks it would be a wand, or some kind of magic rock, or _something_. Not a hedgehog.

“Oh,” says Betty.

It’s the hedgehog from the Twilight, or, at least, she thinks it is. The nose twitches at her, bristling, as Jughead cups the little thing in both of his hands. Betty’s never seen a hedgehog up this close before, and she’s not sure if she should ask to pet, or if she’s just supposed to look, or if this is some kind of weird dreamworld she’s walked into where Jughead just _keeps hedgehogs in his pockets_. He strokes his thumb over the hedgehog’s spines, and says, “This is Rasputin.”

Betty chokes. “ _Rasputin_?”

“I didn’t pick it,” says Jughead defensively. He cups one hand over the top of the hedgehog. “She did, I didn’t name her. She picked her own name. I call her Razz.”

In his cupped hands, Razz makes that little huffing sound from the Twilight again. Betty might be completely batshit, but it sounds almost like the hedgehog is laughing.

“So—” Her head’s a whirl. “So Razz told you that we had to go back.”

“She was keeping watch,” he says. “And—and she told me the cops were on their way and we had to go back.”

“How’d she—”

“I don’t ask.” He shrugs. “She knows things sometimes. It comes with being—what she is.”

Razz pokes her nose out from between Jughead’s fingers, sniffing away.

“She’s—” Betty hesitates. “What is she, then?”

“A—familiar,” he says. “Sort of. Not a goblin, goblins are like—indentured servants. She just—she decided to stick with me when I was about twelve. She’s been around ever since.”

Razz sneezes, and seems to look pleased with herself.

“Okay,” says Betty. She’s not entirely sure what else to say. “Um, so—Razz told you. At the Twilight.”

“Look,” says Jughead, and the unease in his voice makes her want to hug him. “I know this is all a lot and it’s really weird to have it all dumped on your head at once and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before but I’m not allowed to tell—mortals—about stuff like this—”

“Mortals?”

“People who aren’t witches.”

Betty wrinkles her nose. “You call us _mortals_?”

“ _I_ don’t,” says Jughead, immediately backpedaling, “but the rest of the coven—it’s not an insult, it’s just what you are, you die way earlier than us—”

“So, what, witches are like— _im_ mortal?”

“No, but it takes a lot to kill us—” He shakes his head. “That’s not the point—I’m trying to say—I’m trying to say that I wanted to tell you all this time but I couldn’t, okay, I didn’t know if you’d—I didn’t know if you’d believe me and there’s this whole thing about the coven being a secret and we can’t tell anyone and I don’t want you to think that it’s because I didn’t trust you because I _wanted_ to—”

“Jug—”

“But after everything that’s happened with Jason Blossom—”

Betty reels again, in an entirely new way. “ _Jason Blossom was in your coven_?”

“God,” says Jughead, and pulls a face. “No. The Blossoms are—they’re not in the Circle.”

Slowly, things start clicking together in her head. “Is Veronica?”

“No, Veronica is—was—part of a different group. In New York.” He takes a breath, and lets it out. “She should tell you herself. I know what I’ve heard but—there have been enough rumors lately.”

“Is that why you fight?”

“She’s part of a Satanist coven,” he says. “I’m not. And there’s—not a lot of love lost between Satanists and pagans.” 

Betty rubs her thumbs against her eyes. Silence falls heavy between them.

“I—get it,” says Jughead. He looks away from her, over the field. “If, like—you don’t want to, you know. Talk to me. Or if you’re freaked out and you want me to stay away from you, it’d probably be—easier—”

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” says Betty. “Look, I don’t—I don’t know how I feel about all of this, I don’t know what—what to say or do but Jughead, you are my _friend_. You have _always_ been my friend. Other than Kevin you’re—you’re probably the best friend I have right now.” _Better_ than Kevin, because she doesn’t—she doesn’t keep things from Jughead the way she does with Kevin. That’s a realization that’s too much to consider, right now. She barrels on. “And I don’t—I don’t want that to change. I don’t want to lose you because you think I’m scared of you, because I’m _not._ ”

“I—”

“I’ve been thinking all weekend,” says Betty, and he snaps his mouth shut again. “Like—I’ve been thinking about what happened and everything and how it was _my fault_ that the Twilight burned down, and—”

“We can’t know for sure—”

“No, it _was_ , Juggie. It was me, it was my fault. Ever since—” and _oh god_ is she really going to say this? Is this really happening? Is she really telling _Jughead,_ of all people, _Jughead Jones_ , the thing she’s kept to herself since she was twelve? But no—Jughead’s trusted her. She needs to trust him with this. She trusted him the woods with her breakdown; she can trust him again now. More than that—she _wants_ to trust him. Betty clenches her fists tight, and the burst of pain gets her back on track. “You remember that summer when we were like twelve and I had to stay inside for two months because of allergies?”

He’s all confusion, eyes crinkled at the edges like he’s not sure whether to smile or frown. He says, “Kind of?”

“When I was—” She turns red, and then barrels ahead. “I started my period at the beginning of the summer and when it happened I started—seeing things. Like. Dreams and people and places I don’t know, and—and things I didn’t understand, I never really remember them, but it was happening _all the time_ , like—like febrile seizures but they never really would hurt me, so my mom was taking me to doctors all the time and we were trying to figure out what it was and we never did, but—” Betty swallows. “But a few months after they started, I—I started—being able to do things like this.”

She casts around for something to do, something to show him. His necklace is standing out silvery against the fabric of his T-shirt, catching the light, but—no. She focuses hard on a French fry instead, sitting on the plate that he’s left by his foot. It takes less effort than she thought it would. Betty points her finger, and the fries on the plate twist and move around and reshape themselves to spell out the letter _B_.

Jughead looks at her, lips parting. His eyes are overbright.

“You don’t scare me, Jughead,” says Betty. “You never could.”

There’s more to say, more they have to talk about. Where he’s living. How to move forward. But all Betty has the energy to do is put her head back on his shoulder, and fall into a comfortable quiet. Those are things to resolve later, she thinks. They have time.

There’s time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jughead is soft on the inside and very pointy on the outside so.............hedgehog


	11. Interlude: Cheryl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Church of Night gathers to mourn Jason Blossom. Cheryl makes a deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Penelope Blossom being horrifically abusive. Cheryl being fatphobic. Also, vaguely described gory death of an animal. Also, there's a snake. But he's nice. 
> 
> As I mentioned last chapter, my bar prep course starts tomorrow! I'll be in and out and posting MUCH less frequently.

Cheryl can count the number of times they’ve attended Black Mass in Greendale on one finger.

They cross the bridge for the important things, obviously. Dark Baptisms and Black Weddings for particularly highly-placed members of the Church of Night (Blackwoods, Carlisles, Spellmans, though _that_ family hasn’t been particularly well-worth caring about in the last twenty years, not after Edward fell in love with a _mortal_ ), ceremonies like the Feast of Feasts and Lupercalia, all of _those_ are on the table for the Blossoms, but not a simple, common thing like Black Mass. It’s like asking the royal family to come down to the local church for Sunday catechism, Cheryl thinks, and leans forward to wipe the barest smudge of lipstick away from the edge of her mouth. It’s not _done_. It simply is _not._

And yet today, tonight, at midnight, they’re expected to attend Black Mass on Greendale’s side of the Sweetwater, deep in the woods with all the students at the Academy of Unseen Arts, with High Priest Blackwood and the Barkers and Carswells and Lovecrafts and Pierces, everyone she _doesn’t_ want to see ever again in this lifetime. Especially not without Jason.

The raw, permanent, pulsing wound in her chest gives a great _tear_ at the thought of him. Jason, her other half. Jason, her soulmate. Jason, who she’d shared everything with, all her secrets, her whole life, her magic, her _world_. Jason, who’d come to Riverdale with her when she’d been thrown out of the Academy. Jason, who was dead because of her.

“Cheryl.”

Penelope Blossom looks like an empress in mourning. Her long dress—calf length, as the Church of Night prefers—is handwoven from spiders’ webs, with just the right amount of glistening in the patterns of the fabric that makes Cheryl think it’s witched to catch the eye. Her lips are painted blood red, and the veil pinned carefully over her hair stretches down to cast shadows over her dark eyes. Her shoes—heels, with thick, but not ugly, wedges to make sure she can keep her balance in Fox Forest—have mortal fingerbones laced to the latches. Perfect, Cheryl thinks, and hates her. The perfect image of pain and misery.

“You’re not wearing that,” says Penelope.

Cheryl looks back at the mirror. Her dress—modestly cut but tightly seamed—is red, like Jason liked her to wear. Dark, dark red, almost black, but red all the same. _We’re the Blossom twins_ , he’d always said, even back when they were little, when they’d hold hands and go skipping down the cobblestone paths of Thornhill. _We’re the king and queen of Thornhill, and even the Dark Lord has cause to fear us._ “Jay-Jay liked this dress.”

“You’re not wearing it,” says Penelope. “This memorial is not about you, Cheryl. This _event_ is not about you. It’s a miracle they’re letting us even attend considering what you did at the Academy, so you shut your mouth and do what I say.”

Cheryl flinches. She takes a breath, in and out. “Yes, Mommy.”

“Put on something black,” says Penelope. She turns away. “I was right in the first place. Your brother should never have been the one to die.”

Her mother is gone before Cheryl can turn away to hide the tears.

Her father is waiting in the living room downstairs. Cliff hasn’t spoken to her in days, Cheryl thinks. Not since they’d been pulled into the morgue and had to identify Jay-Jay’s broken, bruised, half-rotting body. Maybe Cliff has spoken to Penelope, but certainly not in Cheryl’s line of sight. He doesn’t speak to her now; he taps his fingernails against the edge of his whiskey glass as Cheryl adjusts her new dress, black with one red ribbon woven through the collar. For once, Penelope is the last to emerge from the hallway. Her eyes are red as she says, “Shall we?”

Cliff puts his glass down, It’s the only indication he’s noticed them.

“Cheryl,” says Penelope. Cheryl tears her gaze away from her father, and looks at Penelope. “Remember what I said this morning.”

“Don’t speak to the High Priest,” says Cheryl. “Don’t speak to Academy students.”

“The Blossoms have ensured the safety of the Church of Night for the last seventy-five years,” says Penelope. She reaches out and takes Cheryl’s gloved hand. Cheryl doesn’t have to wait for her mother’s nails to bite into the soft flesh of her wrist. “I will not have you destroying the relationship we have built with some childish temper tantrum about not being able to stay at the Academy. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Mommy.”

“And for the Dark Lord’s sake, _don’t_ embarrass us,” says Penelope. “Just keep your unbearable mouth shut.”

Cheryl ducks her head. She looks at the heels of her shoes.

 ** _Old hag_**. It’s Belial. He rattles, very gently, before Cheryl bends and scoops him up, letting him twine his heavy body around her wrist, up her sleeve, until he’s bracing her neck like a massive collar, scales cool and smooth against her skin. He flickers his forked tongue, and adds, **_I miss Snicket._**

Cheryl strokes the rattlesnake’s triangle head. She does not look at her parents. She doesn’t think she can respond, not right now. Talking about Snicket meant talking about Jason. Jason’s familiar had died two nights after Cheryl had had her breakdown in Pop’s, the goblin under her hare skin erupting in a rush of blood and gore and malformed flesh. She’d gone quite mad before her death. Only Cheryl—Cheryl, who’d shared Jason’s magic, who’d always been able to hear Snicket like Belial could always speak to Jason—could hold her still without being bitten. But familiars could never survive their witches for long. So they’d lost Snicket, too, and her mother had thrown the corpse of her brother’s beloved familiar on the fire like she’d been garbage.

“Cheryl,” says her mother. “Come here.”

Belial stays looped tight around Cheryl’s neck as Cheryl steps forward to take her parents’ hands.

The Church of Night is the largest Satanic coven in the surrounding state. Cheryl can remember her own Dark Baptism, signing her name in the Book of the Beast. She can remember Jason standing next to her and holding her arm as she did it, giving her support, like he always did. That’d been years ago, but the memories hit her like a knife when the transportation spell takes hold. The woods smell the same, all murky and beautiful and green. All witches in the Church of Night are born in the woods. Cheryl had been born in this clearing, two minutes after Jason had screamed his way into the world. The deconsecrated church looms like a ruin out from between the trees, with witches and warlocks entering in bunches of four or five, making their way in for midnight Black Mass. Belial, against Cheryl’s neck, flickers his tongue again and says, **_If they’re here, ignore them._**

Cheryl doesn’t respond.

Faustus Blackwood is waiting for them on the steps of the church. He is a tall man, and in Cheryl’s most private thoughts, she’s always compared him to Vlad Dracul; his hair is slightly receding, his nails are long and polished to brutal white points, and every smile sends a shiver up their spines. His magic is a crushing cloak that he wears around him, something that bowls over the whole coven with the pressure. Cheryl can remember sixteen years ago, when Edward Spellman had been High Priest and Blackwood simply his mentor; he hadn’t drawn the pressure so close to him then. He reaches out, and Penelope takes Blackwood’s hand and bends over it into a short curtsy. “Father.”

“Sister Penelope,” says Father Blackwood. He turns, and Cliff takes his hand too. “Brother Clifford. We grieve alongside you.”

“Thank you, Father,” says Penelope. Her voice rasps. “And—thank you for agreeing to this. We must have a memorial for the mortals, but—they are not who we want mourning Jason.”

“Of course not,” says Father Blackwood. He puts an arm around Penelope. “Let’s get you to your seat.”

Cheryl has been ignored. She couldn’t expect much better. She strokes the tips of her gloved fingers along Belial’s triangle head, and hangs back by the door. She doesn’t want to go into the church until she has to, and, well, if she winds up making an entrance, at least she’ll be playing true to form.

The Academy students have already filed in. She can see the Three-In-One in the third row, heads turned and staring directly back at her. Prudence, Dorcas, and Agatha Night, the bastard by-blows of who knows who, who’d hated her on sight. Nicholas Scratch is there, but sitting away from the Sisters—they must have lost their control of his mind, she thinks—and reading a book that he has perched in his lap. The Spellman Sisters, in a respectable middling row—not at the front, where they had been when Edward had been High Priest, but not at the back, either. The fat one, Hilda, turns as if she feels Cheryl watching her, and then says something to Zelda before standing up.

Cheryl turns—she is _not_ about to deal with false sympathy from a Spellman—and finds that the Three-In-One have snuck up on her.

They’re like hunting sharks, the Weird Sisters. Prudence is the leader, but Dorcas and Agatha are not followers, not exactly. They do what Prudence says, but it’s because they are three of a kind, a matched set, like Cheryl had had with Jason. So close they shared the same mind. So close they pooled the same magic. “You,” croons Prudence, and folds her arms across her chest. “You _dare_ show your face here again.”

Cheryl lifts her chin. She’s not supposed to talk to Academy students, but it’s not as though she can back down from a challenge. “Prudence,” she says. “What a revolting surprise.”

“We thought you were expelled,” says Dorcas.

“You _were_ expelled,” says Agatha.

“For what you did,” says Prudence.

“For what you were _going_ to do,” says Dorcas.

“You deserved worse,” says Agatha.

Belial, at her neck, hisses. The Weird Sisters look at him in the same movement, and Cheryl has to fight the urge to fold her hands over him, protectively. The Sisters have familiars, but Cheryl has never seen them. No student at the Academy is allowed to bring their familiar. It’s viewed as a crutch. Whatever they are, Cheryl thinks, the Sisters’ familiars must be something as matched as the three of them.

“It’s the shame you’re all such poor sports,” says Cheryl. She strokes her fingers along Belial’s spine. “It’s been a year. I would have thought you’d be over it by now.”

“Not likely,” says Prudence, hissing through her teeth.

“You should never—”

“—have come—”

“—back here—”

“— _heavenspawn_.”

“Cheryl,” says a voice, and hell save her, it’s Hilda Spellman. She looks fretful and lumpy in her awful cardigan, a black kerchief tied over her wispy hair. “Oh, my dear, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry—girls, what are you doing out of your seats?”

“Nothing,” says Prudence, and brushes past Hilda. “At least, none of _your_ business.”

“Mortal-lover,” says Dorcas, and brushes past her too.

“ _Spellman_ ,” says Agatha, and follows after them.

Hilda watches them as they go, and sighs. “Those three,” she says, in a voice that is not bitter in the slightest, only exasperated. “Honestly, you’d think being raised in the Academy they’d have learned better manners.”

Cheryl lifts her chin, and says, “I don’t need _your_ help, Hilda Spellman.”

“Oh, no, of course not, dear.” Hilda gives Belial an appraising look, but just gives her a little smile. Cheryl wants to poke her eyes out. “I simply—I simply wanted to tell you how sorry I am about losing your brother. I—I wanted to ask if you needed anything.”

“From you?” says Cheryl. She gives Hilda a top to toe look, and then says, “Absolutely not.”

Hilda’s smile does not flicker in the slightest. She says, “Dear, I—keep in mind that I know how it can feel, losing your brother. Especially abruptly. To—to this day I wonder what I could have said or what I—what I could have done to change it. To keep him here, on this side. If it were my—my fault, for not trying hard enough.”

Belial presses his head into Cheryl’s neck in silence. Cheryl blinks a few times, trying to clear her vision. She says, “I don’t want comfort from you.”

“Of course not,” says Hilda. “Of course not. I just—want you to know that you’re not alone, Cheryl, dear. Even if—sometimes it may feel like it.”

Pointedly, she looks into the church. Penelope and Cliff are surrounded by witches, those that Cheryl knows and those that Cheryl doesn’t. They’re not looking at her. They are united in their grief, and Cheryl—Cheryl is on the outside, as she always is. Cheryl, not good enough to be welcomed into the circle. She bites the inside of her cheek, hard.

“Oh,” says Hilda, and Cheryl turns back to look at her. “I had—I had a question for you, actually, now that I think about it. Well, not _for_ you, precisely, but, well, you’re here, and you live—there—so—”

“Anything to make you stop _talking_ ,” says Cheryl, who is getting a headache.

“Only—” Hilda taps a finger to the end of her chin. “I’ve—been informed by an old—friend—that my cousin Morty—did you ever meet Morty? A little before your time, I think he was, you would have been in the Academy when he was killed—”

Vague memories flicker around the back of her head. Mortimer Spellman. Blonde. A bit mousey. Not a particularly powerful warlock, but full of himself anyway. Convinced he was Satan’s gift. A lot of witches in the coven had thought him a very good marital prospect, before he’d been murdered by witch hunters. She says, “What about him?”

“Only—I _think_ he might have had a child, you see,” says Hilda, and makes a _what can you do_ face. Suddenly, Cheryl’s heart begins to pound. “I’ve been trying all the typical bloodline tracing spells, but—well, you know how _our_ magic works around Riverdale, it keeps coming up against all these blocks. I can only get so far. I was just—wondering—if you’d maybe seen someone doing magic that seemed—well, not—not properly trained? Or a pagan witch, maybe, who didn’t know who her father was?”

“We don’t socialize with the Serpents,” says Cheryl, coldly. In her head, she is in a very different place, a soft, pastel room, and the wind is picking up around her. _Get the hell out of my house before I kill you._ “I wouldn’t have any idea what they’re doing.”

“Oh,” says Hilda, and her expressive, doughy face falls. “Well—well. I suppose it was worth the asking.”

“I can try and look,” says Cheryl, after a long moment, and Hilda’s eyes light up. Belial, against her neck, says, **_Cheryl, what are you planning?_** She ignores him. He’ll work it out in a moment. “How old?”

“I think—almost sixteen.” Hilda’s expression flickers. “I don’t have much information besides that, I’m afraid. Morty died so long ago, and I don’t think he ever knew he’d had the child. But if you find anything—”

“You’ll be the first to know if I find anything,” says Cheryl, sweetly. “I promise.”

“Oh,” says Hilda, and she smiles. “Oh—thank you very much, dear, I don’t know if—I don’t know if you need to go so far as to hunt for her—”

“Of course I do,” says Cheryl, and slips her arm through Hilda’s. Hilda jumps, and blinks at her. Cheryl is taller than Hilda Spellman, and it’s a little awkward, but Cheryl needs to make her point. “But Hilda, my sweet Spellman, you have to do me a favor in return. And you have to do it _without_ telling my parents. _Or_ your sister.”

Hilda’s face does not quiver. She looks at Cheryl, and Cheryl remembers, abruptly, that Hilda Spellman is older than either of her parents; older than most of the witches in the Church of Night. She may be in Zelda’s shadow in almost all things, but she is _old_ , and the look in her eyes—she knows _exactly_ what Cheryl’s about. She says, “Depends, my love. What sort of favor are you looking for?”

“Nothing much,” says Cheryl. She doesn’t break the gaze. “A séance. I hear you were quite good at them, in your time.”

“I wasn’t bad,” says Hilda. “Are you sure the—person you’re wanting to speak to isn’t resting easy in his grave?”

Belial hisses, long and slow.

“That’s for us to find out,” says Cheryl. “Don’t you think.”

Hilda debates. Up at the front of the room, Penelope turns. Her perfect mourning mask cracks when she sees Cheryl arm in arm with a Spellman. Cheryl can’t help it. She turns, so she can’t see her mother. If she looks too long, she’ll lose her nerve.

“Right,” says Hilda. “Shall I come to yours?”

“We’re having a memorial to keep up appearances with the mortals at the end of this week,” says Cheryl. “I’ll get you an invitation. And I’ll look around for your—cousin.”

“Right,” Hilda says. She nods. “A bargain, then, miss.”

“A bargain,” says Cheryl. She looses her arm from Hilda’s, and walks away from her to take her seat at the front. She is shaking—she can’t remember quite when that started—but—

 _Jason_ , she thinks, and closes her eyes. Belial slides under her collar, and down, to coil over her heart. _Jason._


	12. Wicked Witch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Betty and Jughead talk. A connection is made about Jason's death.
> 
> [Part Three of Chapter Five. Overlaps with Chapter Five: Heart of Darkness.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Hal continues to be A Massive Creep. BIG HOMOPHOBIA/QUEERPHOBIA VIBES FROM HIM, GUYS, PLEASE BE CAREFUL. I'm queer and writing the paragraph which begins with "Don't tell them I like girls as well as boys" stressed me the FUCK out. There's some mention/discussion of Jughead's homelessness.
> 
> A MOST BEAUTEOUS AND BOUNTIFUL THANK YOU TO LITERATIRUINED ME FOR A MAGNIFICENT MOODBOARD!!! SEE BELOW.

There’s a list of things that Betty can never, ever tell her parents.

The first one is obvious. _Don’t tell them what I can do_. She’s never done that. Polly was right. Telling her parents what she can do would result in more doctors and more pain and more fear and more—everything. She’s known that since she was twelve. She’s not telling either of her parents _any_ of it.

 _Don’t tell them I like girls as well as boys._ This one is also obvious. She thinks Alice would be okay with it—mostly because Alice, who doesn’t think bisexuality exists, would probably force herself to forget that Betty ever mentioned it—but Hal, her father who rolls his eyes when stories about queer characters turn up in books and television shows and rumbles about how _the media is shoving their life choices in our faces now_ , Hal who talks about having gay friends in college but wonders why gay marriage being legalized was even necessary because _it’s not like they can have kids without science anyway_ : Hal would be angry. She doesn’t want or need to come out to her parents, not now, potentially not ever. Maybe, she thinks, once she’s living across the country. But not before.

 _Don’t tell them I don’t believe in God._ She’s been baptized but she’s never been religious, and the concept of God always confused her even _before_ she’d started causing windstorms when she got too mad.

 _Don’t tell them my first kiss was with a girl._ With Veronica. To try and get them both into the cheerleading squad. She’s still not sure what to think about that.

And now:

_Don’t tell them I’m a witch._

It’s ringing in her head all through class. She has no way to focus on anything. Not on bio, not on AP history, nothing. She takes no notes. Stares out the window the whole time, thinking. _I’m a witch._ She goes to her locker on autopilot, getting her books. _I’m a witch._ Changes for River Vixens practice knowing that Veronica, two lockers over, is not only a witch, but a witch that worships Satan. _I’m a witch._ Not a Wiccan, not a neopagan, not that kid who sits in the back of the classroom reading tarot cards for fun and saying “praise the mother goddess” in some attempt to seem effervescent and _different_. A witch. A real, living, magic-using, ritual-making, familiar-having, hex-wielding witch.

_I’m a witch. I’m a witch. I’m a witch._

It makes sense. It _makes things_ make sense. How her temper made things break. How she’s had funny dreams. Her hallucinations. The things she can do—lifting objects with a flick of the finger, heating and cooling things with her mind, flying books around the room like Matilda did in Roald Dahl’s famous book. It _clicks._ It’s—it’s right, somehow.

_My name is Betty Cooper, and I’m a witch._

Jughead had been speechless for a full five minutes after her trick with the fries. Not scared of her, not like she’d thought people would be for the last four years. Showing him hadn’t scared him. He’d just—looked at the plate for a very long time before putting an arm around her shoulders and letting her rest there, until her nerves finally let up a bit and she stopped shaking like a puppy pulled out of a drainage ditch. Then, because it was Jughead, he’d gone into interview mode— _how long have you been able to do that? When did it start? Have you told your parents? What about Polly? Have you been to the Academy?_ (This question made no sense; Stonewall Academy? No.) _Can anyone else in your family do it? How have you been controlling it? Has anyone been teaching you?_

Then he’d leaned back, crossed his arms, and said, in a very bad imitation of a British accent: “Y’r a witch, Betty.”

Betty had shoved him so hard he’d almost fallen backwards off the bleachers. She only feels slightly bad about it. 

Jughead promises, at the end of lunch, that he’ll come talk to her more after _hunting around_. “Despite my _rapier wit,_ Harriet Potter—” She shoves him again, this time with her elbow. “—we’re not like _Harry Potter_ ,” he says. “Witchcraft doesn’t spontaneously just _show up_ in a family that’s never had a witch in it before.”

“Jug, what—what are you saying?” She wraps her jacket closer around herself. Her palms sweat. “Are you saying that one of my parents is—is like—”

“I don’t know, maybe.” He hesitates. “Maybe not.”

“Are you saying one of my parents had an affair?”

“I don’t know.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “I can’t—I don’t know.”

She doesn’t know what to say. Betty wraps her arms around her ribs, and looks over his shoulder at the football field, where Moose and Midge are having a picnic on the green.

“Just—I have so many questions,” she says. “About—about you, and about the Circle, and about my—my dreams, my hallucinations, god, about _Veronica_ and the Blossoms and—does Archie know?”

Jughead arches his eyebrows. “You think Archie could keep a secret like this?”

She bites back her automatic instinct to defend Archie. That’s the Old Betty, the Pining Betty, the Betty who hadn’t been treated like _shit_ because—because of everything. She says, “I just—wondered.”

“Listen,” he says. “It’s—dangerous to talk about this stuff. Especially surrounded by—” His eyes dart to her again. “By mortals.”

“I read _The Witch at Blackbird Pond_ too, remember?” She rubs her sore shoulder. “I won’t—say anything. To anyone. Not even Veronica. I—I have to work out what—what’s going on, first.”

Jughead’s eyebrows draw together into something almost dangerous. He says, “Veronica isn’t—I wouldn’t trust her, Betty.”

“She helped me with—Chuck,” she says. “With—with ending that _horrible_ book. And—I don’t know. She’s been—”

_—pretty boys and human toys and—_

Betty stops. There’s an ache behind her right eye again, almost long distance, like an echo of pain rather than something real and present, something in the now. She rubs at her temple.

“Look,” says Jughead. “I—that morning when you came in sick, I think—I think there was a spell on you. I don’t know what kind—”

“A _spell_?”

“You remember the tea I gave you?” She nods, and he says, “That’s—I kind of stole that from one of the witches in the Circle. Toni was furious until I told her why I needed it—”

“Toni?”

“She’s part of the Circle,” he says. “One of the herbalists. It’s this tea she makes to cleanse the spirit, lavender and dandelion with a mix of lots of other things, but—but the important thing is I think it cleared most of the spell off you. And if it was a curse, or something, you showering would have washed it off.”

“Showering cleanses spells?”

“Running water does,” he says. “Any kind. Streams or fountains or—whatever. Jumping in the Sweetwater would wash anything right off you. But—I don’t know. You—” He stops. “You were with Veronica the day before. I don’t…like the idea that she messed with you.”

Her stomach is churning. More than that—her blood seems to be pooling in her hands and feet, hair standing up all over her body. _Veronica cast a spell on me_. She doesn’t know what to think. Her guts feel ready to come out her throat, like some grotesque blooming flower.

“Hey,” says Jughead, and then he pulls his necklace off again, unhooking the back of the chain and sliding the pentacle off. He takes her hand by the wrist, presses the pentacle into her palm. “You should wear this for now.”

“Jug—”

“It’ll help siphon off extra energy,” he says. “In case—you lose your temper. It’ll keep you from breaking things or summoning winds. And—there are protections against most hexes laid into the metal. It’ll keep you safe.”

No wonder she hadn’t had any incidents over the weekend. Betty curls her fingers around the charm. “Jughead, this is yours, I can’t—”

“Trust me. I haven’t needed it for a few years. Razz helps.” He touches his hand to the pocket of his jacket where the hedgehog is hiding, and then blows out air. “Just—wear it for me, Betts. As a favor. Please?”

Betty looks at him. Jughead seems—nervy. Not quite scared, but not calm, either. She touches his shoulder with her free hand, and then says, “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

He blows out air again, a sigh of relief this time. Jughead lets go of her hand, and steps away from her. “I’m gonna—go talk to some people who might have an idea what’s going on. I’ll text you when I have something.”

“I’m grounded, remember? I don’t get phone or computer access at home. And my parents are checking all my social media when I come home to make sure I’m not talking about sneaking out again.”

Jughead rubs the end of his nose with his thumb. Then, shifting awkwardly away from her, he says, “We can talk tomorrow. Or I could…come over maybe. After your parents go to bed.”

Betty blinks at him, slowly. _Come over?_ She takes a breath. Her brain is whirling. _One of my parents might have had an affair and I’m a witch and Veronica might have witched me and magic is real and—_ “Jug—”

“What,” says Jughead, and the crooked smile comes back. “I’m sneaky. I can get in.”

“No, I—” _I don’t want my parents to catch you and forbid me from ever seeing you again, cause you’re one of my best friends._ She takes a breath. “I can leave the back door open.”

“Oh,” says Jughead, and waggles his fingers at her. “No, I can—I can connect your closet door to another doorway. Easier that way. No security cameras can pick me up.” His expression flickers, something on the verge of vulnerability. “Unless you don’t want—”

“No, that’s fine.” Betty makes a mental note to pick up _all_ the bras off the floor of her closet as soon as she gets home. “That—works. Do I—do I have to do anything for—?”

“No, all I need is an image of the door in my head, and I remember where your room is.” Betty blinks—the last time Jughead had been in her room they were ten, and sure, maybe she hasn’t moved rooms or like reorganized furniture but that was almost _six years ago_ —but he’s moved on so quickly she can’t think about it too much. “Just keep the door shut around midnight so it’ll link properly. It won’t keep the spell from working, but the door would close on its own so I can transpose and that’s—kind of creepy the first time you see it.”

She can’t believe this is happening. “Okay.” She curls her hands into fists, holding on tight. “Okay.”

“Hey,” says Jughead. He touches her shoulder with the tips of his fingers. “You’re not crazy. Okay?”

She can’t help it. Betty smiles, her lips trembling a little. She says, “Yeah. You said.”

“I meant it,” he says. “You’re—not crazy. Or we’re _all_ crazy. But—whatever happened with—with your parents, if anything, it’s—it’s not on you.”

Betty takes a breath. She shuts her eyes, breathing in and out through her nose. _You can’t know there was an affair,_ she tells herself, firmly. _Until you know, you don’t know. It might be something different._ “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” says Jughead. His hand drops away from her. “I’m gonna—I’m gonna go talk to some people. Wear the pentacle.”

“I will.”

She hangs it on the same chain as her father’s cross. Betty looks at it in the mirror between fifth and sixth period, letting it rest against the fabric of her shirt so she can see how it looks for a long, secret moment. She’ll get another chain for it, she thinks. She’s not going to take the risk of Hal seeing her wear a _pentacle_ on the same chain as her grandmother’s crucifix. Then she’d be grounded for ten years, not just…however long she’s being grounded now.

Betty tucks the chain back under her collar when someone flushes a toilet in a nearby stall, and washes her hands.

She might be new at being grounded, but she’s learned things over the years. She doesn’t uninstall the locator app—her parents would make things worse if she did—but she _does_ change her lock code as she’s sitting on the locker room bench after her shower, to a six-digit code that may or may not be the code to her locker, 28 40 81. Something her parents would never know, and never be able to figure out without clawing it out of her skull with a hook. If either Alice _or_ Hal try to open it, she’ll be in the moral high ground of _why are you trying to break into my phone anyway_ , and hopefully that will make them feel at least enough shame to give up trying to hack her private life. She considers, and then sets up an SOS alert on her iPhone to record audio if she holds the button down long enough. Never too careful, she supposes. By the time Hal drives up at five o’clock on the dot, Betty’s sitting with damp hair on the steps of the high school, typing out notes for her phone.

She’s not going to out Jughead. Riverdale has already been through enough witch hunts. There’s one happening now that has nothing to do with magic or witchcraft. Sheriff Keller arresting Jughead for burning down the Twilight is proof enough of that. But she needs a place to process her thoughts, come up with more questions, and until she can be sure her parents won’t be going through her notebooks every night, securing her phone and keeping everything under lock and key is critical.

Part of her still is sitting in disbelief that that’s real. Witches, and magic, and familiars, and Satan—all of it. _Real_. The logical part of her, the reporter in her, the _Lois Lane_ bit as her mom described it: she wants facts and figures and names and dates and _proof_. All of it. Another part of her, the part who read _Matilda_ and _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone_ and all the Terry Pratchett she could get her hands on, is shrieking in uncontrollable joy. And yet another part, a deeper, more intrinsic part than anything else, is simply—calm. Steady. Like— _of course I’m a witch. Of course I am. Of course._

_I’m a witch._

She isn’t crazy. She’s _not crazy_. She’s not.

She’s back home, in her room, and cleaning all the laundry up off the floor of her closet when she realizes she forgot to ask Jughead if he’s found someplace to stay.

.

.

.

Alice is on a four-day, three-night retreat for women in journalism at some spa down in Portland, which means it’s just Betty and her father in the house. Normally, this would be an optimum time for Betty to push the envelope a bit—stay out just a little bit later, hang out with a boy at Pop’s, sneak a post-curfew Netflix binge—but Hal is on the prowl, and he doesn’t seem to have any intention of letting Betty get away with anything. She does her homework at the kitchen table, with her dad sitting at the head of the table doing work on an article about the Twilight and the fancy arson investigators that Sheriff Keller’s called up from the capital. Since Jughead is a minor they can’t name him in any of their articles—it’s the one thing that’s going well about the Twilight right now—but that hasn’t stopped them from effectively sliming him as _the former projection operator_ who is _the only person who has been interrogated so far in the investigation._

“You might as well say he _did_ it,” Betty had said, when she’d seen the first article, and Alice had thrown up her hands.

“ _Please,_ Betty, he wouldn’t have been arrested if he _hadn’t_.”

(This had been one of the over-the-weekend arguments that had resulted in a slammed door.)

Betty retreats to her room as soon as she’s done with her homework. Archie’s not in his room. Out with Grundy, she thinks, and yanks her curtains shut, clambering into the window seat with a throw blanket and the copy of _The Bluest Eye_ that Toni Morrison had signed with a personalized note to her, thanking her for her help with the event. Usually getting the chance to rest her hands to the book and just kind of absorbing the weight of the cover, the paper, the content, helps her ease anxiety. Today, somehow, it doesn’t. Waiting for midnight is going to be excruciating.

She’s showered and done some yoga in a desperate attempt to pass the time when Hal comes to knock at the jamb of her door. (She’s supposed to keep it open unless she’s sleeping. More ways to make sure she’s not _communicating with undesirables_ , she supposes.) “Hey, kittycat,” he says, and Betty, holding Caramel and _The Bluest Eye_ in her lap again, just looks at him. “I was gonna make some hot cocoa. Do you want any?”

Betty doesn’t look away from the window. The motion-sensor light over Mrs. Myerson’s driveway are turning on and off in an erratic pattern, and if she squints, she can see a rat skittering around on the asphalt. “Depends,” she says. “What’s the catch? I have to give up being a cheerleader because you hate the Blossoms?”

She can feel his smile sliding off his face, even without looking at him. Still, his voice is light and cheery as he says, “Can’t I ask my daughter if she wants to have cocoa without being treated like a prison guard?”

“Can’t I have a set of parents who don’t treat _me_ like I’m a criminal?” she says.

The pause stretches a beat too long. Then Hal says, “I thought you were more mature than this, Betty. Especially after what happened with your sister.”

“Which you still haven’t _told me_ ,” says Betty, and turns to look at him, finally. Hal is standing in her door frame, still, arms crossed, face smoothed out to stone. “I don’t even know what _happened_ with Polly, Dad. I came home from L.A. and all you and Mom told me is that she’s sick and I can’t see her. I don’t even know where she _is_.”

“It’s for the best.” Hal’s jaw tightens. “Your sister got involved with people who—hurt her. Made her sick. Until she’s healthy and whole again, she’s not coming home.”

“Sick with _what_?” Betty says, but she thinks of Jason’s ghost in the river saying _Polly knows what’s in that house_ , and the idea that the Blossoms are—not wholly human. That the Blossoms have _magic_. “Did—did something happen to Polly? To make her sick?”

 _The Blossoms are—they’re not in the Circle_ , Jughead had said. And Jason—he’d been shot, but before that, he’d been stoned. With rocks.

“I’ll make some extra cocoa for you,” he says. “In case you want some later.”

“Dad—”

“Stop _asking_ , Betty,” says Hal, and he walks away from the door before Betty can say anything else.

She turns her light out at eleven-thirty, just to cast the illusion she’s sleeping. Her dad doesn’t try the knob; he doesn’t seem to have come upstairs yet, even as the clock ticks closer and closer to midnight. Betty sits on the edge of her bed, tugging awkwardly at her shirt—she’d had to change clothes, to convince her dad nothing was going on, but the idea of Jughead seeing her in sleep clothes feels—she’s not sure. A weird kind of intimacy. She’s gone for her least sexy plaid pajama pants that she’d stolen from Polly pre-Jason, the ones with the holes in the hems, and a shirt with a cat on it, and had actually looked at herself in the mirror before flushing and feeling stupid. It was _Jughead,_ she told herself. Jughead, who’d she’d known since kindergarten. Jughead who went to the same swim class as her in elementary school, and got in trouble cause he wouldn’t take his hat off to get in the pool. Jughead wouldn’t care if she was wearing a tutu. So far as she knows, Jughead’s never even had a _crush_ , let alone noticed what someone was wearing at midnight when he snuck into their room.

She pats at her cheeks, feeling awkward, and sits down on the edge of her bed again.

The alarm clock on her bedside table is two minutes fast. It reads 12:02 when there’s a flicker of sound from inside her closet. It’s not much—if she hadn’t been listening hard, she would have missed it—but it’s _there_ , almost like a rustle of wind. The door opens, and with it comes a few wet leaves; Jughead slinks through, padding soft as a cat, and shuts the door again.

“Jug,” she says, in a hiss. “Where did you _come_ from?”

Jughead tugs his hat down closer over his ears. “You know the old treehouse?”

“The one in—” _Out in the woods_? She bites her tongue on it, stands. Her bare toes curl into her carpet. Mr. Andrews had built that thing when they were _nine_ , and she hasn’t gone out to see it in years; she can’t imagine what kind of state it’s in now. “Jug—”

“It’s fine,” he says. “I’m honestly surprised I didn’t think of it sooner.”

“It’s probably all rotten—”

“It’s fine. It hasn’t collapsed yet.”

There’s nothing she can say to that that won’t make him angry. Betty folds her arms tight over her chest, thankful she remembered to keep her bra on, that she pulled the curtain that would give Archie a clear view right into her room, that downstairs her dad has been watching TV for the last few hours and probably won’t notice the creaking of footsteps. She hesitates, and then says, “Where’s Razz?”

He looks pleased. It could just be a trick of the light, but she thinks it isn’t. “Foraging,” he says. “Hedgehogs are nocturnal. Razz isn’t—technically a hedgehog, but she likes foraging anyway. She’ll come back when she gets bored.”

“Will she be able to find you?”

He blinks. “She always knows where I am. She’ll turn up when she wants.”

 _Like her witch_ , Betty thinks, privately. Then—because she has to—she bites the bullet. “Jug, why were you living at the Twilight?”

“Because the bridge got too dangerous,” he says, blithely, and sits down on her window seat. Betty bites the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood.

“The _bridge_? The one to Greendale?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, and won’t meet her eyes, shoulders hitching uncomfortably. “The bridge first and then, y’know. I was camping for a while. The Twilight was easier.”

“But—”

“Things aren’t great at home,” he says, shortly. “It’s better if I’m away.”

“Juggie,” says Betty. It comes out soft. “I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t want you to,” he says. She thinks it was supposed to be cutting. Instead, it just comes out tired. “You try to fix things, Betty. You always do. And it’s—it’s a good quality most of the time, but believe me when I tell you that my family’s not something that you can fix.”

She can’t think what to say.

“Anyway.” He leans back, stretching out his legs. His boots, despite presumably having trekked through Fox Forest in the dark, are surprisingly clean. At least there won’t be patches of mud on her carpet to clean up later. “I went down to the South Side to talk to Toni and her grandfather.”

“The herbalist?”

Jughead nods. “She’s—they’re both part of the Circle. And Toni’s grandfather is really old; if there’s ever been any instance of a witch being born to mortals, he’d have some way to find out about it.”

Betty folds her legs up. “What’d they say?”

“They’re looking into it,” he says. “As…a personal favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

“One I’ll have to repay.” He shrugs. “It’s how the Circle works, Betty. I might not be a full part of it yet, but I follow the rules. You trade favors in kind. Usually they have me go get herbs from the woods or go to one of the hedge witches outside of Greendale to get a tincture or something.”

“Hedge witches?”

“Witches who choose to not be part of a coven,” he says. “It’s—usually way more dangerous. You’re much more—vulnerable, if you’re not part of a coven.”

She nods.

“Toni wants to meet you,” he says, abruptly. “And her grandfather.”

Betty blinks. She folds her legs more closely up under herself. “Is that a good idea?”

“I mean—” Jughead makes a vague gesture with his hand. “Toni’s been a part of the Circle since before I was born, and she’s—loyal. I don’t think she’d hurt you. I wouldn’t—bring it up, if I thought she would. And Thomas, her grandfather, he’s—you know how I told you there are different parts of the Circle? He’s the leader of the Uktena faction. He’s old, and powerful, and—to be honest, I’m not sure it’s smart to ignore any request he makes.” She must make a face, or something, because Jughead hurriedly adds, “He’s not going to hurt me or something, Betty. He’s just—he’s not the Serpent King, but he _is_ a Founder. The Circle exists in part because he does. You have to have a _really_ good reason to say no to a Founder.”

 _Serpent King_ , Betty mouths. She swallows, and plays with the new chain she’d found for the pentacle, twisting it around her fingers. “Like—the South Side Serpents?”

Jughead doesn’t look at her. His legs have gone stiff and wooden, almost. After a long, syrup-sticky moment, he says, “The Serpents act as—camouflage—to the Circle. Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“They’re—independent.” He taps his thumb against the edge of her window seat. “This town was—founded—by witch hunters. If we were—obvious—we wouldn’t have lived this long. So most…witches…in Riverdale belong or—are related to—South Side Serpents.”

Her tongue has dried up. Betty works her throat a few times, and then slides off her bed, coming to sit beside Jughead on the windowsill. He’s damp from the outside, smelling of Fox Forest and boy in a way that’s somehow reassuring. Betty tucks her legs back up under her again, and reaches out to touch his jaw, turn his face to her. His eyes dart all around her room before he meets her gaze.

“Jug,” she says. “Are you a Serpent?”

His throat works. He doesn’t look away from her, not from a long time. Then: “No,” he says. “No. And I—don’t have any interest. Not in—in the mortal side of the Serpents.”

She turns that over in her mind, and then nods. She’s not sure if she’s relieved, or even more confused. Betty drops her hand, and says, “Okay.”

“My dad,” says Jughead, and then his voice goes a bit hoarse. “He’s—and my mom. They’re both—in the Circle. And they were Serpents.” He stops. “Are—Serpents. It’s—why Veronica wanted to make sure I—passed on her mom’s regards.”

“Because they’re from a coven in New York,” says Betty, “and your—parents—are part of a witch gang here in Riverdale.”

Jughead nods. He doesn’t look away from her.

“Is that why you’re—living in the treehouse?” She works her throat again. “Because—because your dad is—”

“No, that’s—” He stands, and then sits again. “No. I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”

“Okay,” she says, because she can’t say anything else. Betty says, “What do Toni and her grandfather want to see me for?”

“I don’t know,” says Jughead. He scrambles for this new topic, clearly on firmer ground. “I think—I think Toni wants to get a look at you, to be honest. And Thomas—I don’t know.”

Betty weighs that, carefully. “When would they—want to see me?”

“Tomorrow.”

She reels. “ _Tomorrow?_ ”

“Tomorrow night,” he says. “I’d—come get you. You wouldn’t be able to make it past the protection spells on Sunnyside Trailer Park, you’re—not marked to pass. If you came without an escort, you’d—probably get some broken bones or something.”

“Jug, I’m _grounded_ —”

“—with an all class pass to any doorway in town,” he says, and waggles his fingers. Then: “Well, any door I’ve actually seen and know what’s on the other side of, anyway. If I try to transpose a door to a place I don’t know it doesn’t work very well.”

She waves that off. “If my dad finds me gone—”

“I can fix that,” he says. His face sours. “Betty, if you don’t want to go, I’ll tell them no. You don’t have to. There’s—a lot that’s happening right now, and if you don’t feel comfortable—”

“No, I—” She heaves a breath. “I’ll go.”

Jughead sighs again. “Okay,” he says.

They sit in silence for a while. Betty is digesting. Jughead—she’s not sure what he’s doing. When she peeks at him, he’s darting curious around her room, inspecting the posters she has up. Things had been much more One Direction themed the last time he’d been in here, she thinks.

“Jug,” says Betty. “I’ve—I’ve been thinking.”

He looks at her. In the dark, his eyes seem almost grey, or silvery. “What about?”

“My dad said—something—earlier, about Polly.” She folds her hands in her lap. The rat’s back, skittering back and forth over Mrs. Myerson’s driveway. “He said that people—made her sick. He implied it was the Blossoms, I don’t—know who _else_ he would have meant. And you said—the Blossoms aren’t in the Serpents, but—the way Jason died, the—stoning. That’s how people used to kill witches. Isn’t it?”

Jughead’s mouth goes tight. He looks at her, and doesn’t say anything.

“Do you think—” She takes a breath. “Do you think maybe Polly is—sick—because Jason—because Jason was messing with her? Like—putting spells on her? And—and that he got caught, and that’s—why he died?”

Jughead’s quiet for a long time. Then, quietly, he says, “I’ve been wondering about that.”

“About Polly?”

“About whether Jason did something stupid,” says Jughead, “like all rich boys do, and got himself caught by witch hunters. But I haven’t been able to find any proof.”

Betty folds and refolds her hands in her lap. In the dark, with the moon risen outside, it feels as though they’re telling a ghost story. But it’s not, she thinks. Or, at least, she’s fairly sure it’s not. “You said they’re called the Order of Innocents. The hunters. How many are there?”

“Who knows?” Jughead shrugs. “More than there are witches. The advantage is they don’t have powers, most of them. They just get culty and decide that the only kind of good witch is a dead one. There’s that verse in the Bible, _thou shalt not suffer a witch to live_. They take it seriously.” His tone turns mocking. “But that pesky verse about not wearing mixed cloth? That one’s clearly just to fuck us all over.”

“Jug.”

“You’re safe,” he says. He almost blurts it out. “With the pentacle, I mean, and—you know, a witch’s power doesn’t…fully manifest until they turn sixteen. Once that happens you start—feeling magic differently. That’s when it gets more dangerous. Until then you’re just kinda—a blip on their radar. Not big enough to go hunting for.”

That hadn’t been what she was thinking about _at all_ , but it makes her chest go cold. Betty says, “Oh.”

“Sorry,” he says. “You know, not that we had much of a mood with talking about how Jason Blossom got murdered, but—”

“It’s fine.” Betty takes a breath, and lets it out. She says, “Stay here tonight.”

She _thinks_ Jughead is blushing. He definitely sputters. It’s only after he manages to get his voice back that he says, “ _That’s_ what you get out of the _you’re not a blip on their radar_ conversation?”

“You’re a witch too,” she says. “And if you think I’m letting you stay out in that _stupid treehouse_ when I have a sleeping bag in my closet—”

“Betty—”

“Please,” she says. “Juggie. _Please._ Just—for tonight. Please. Jason’s already dead, and Polly is—” She swallows. “And with—I don’t want to worry. Please.”

He fidgets. Then—his neck and cheeks are still red, she thinks—he stands, and says, “Only for you, Betty Cooper, would I sleep in a room with lighting on the wall that reads _Love_ like some sort of teen magazine.”

“Oh, shut up,” she says. “There’s spare pajamas in my closet.”


	13. Wicked Things Come In Threes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Betty and Jughead make a plan. Cheryl and Hal, in their own separate ways, promptly wreck it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAVE MORE MOODBOARDS. These were made by a DELIGHTFUL human who wishes to remain anonymous, and I'll also be posting them on Tumblr. I DON'T OWN THEM AND AM NOT SO TALENTED AS TO HAVE MADE THEM, BUT I LOVE THEM.

She’s had this dream before. She knows that, though she can’t remember it. It’s in the motions of it, all tried and true, and in the far distant part of her mind that is still thinking, outside the dream, she knows— _soon, I will open my hand, and see my palm sliced to bone._ She stands in the woods, and blood is drenching her. It runs down her hair, over her forehead, into her eyes. It catches on her lashes. It swells up her throat, like she’s vomiting. She stands, and she is barefoot in the woods, and through the trees she can see the Sweetwater. There’s snow on the ground. The trees are singing, singing, singing. It’s not a song with words. It still rings in her bones. There are other voices, too, women, echoing, ancient—

 _Vod omnes ministri_ —

Betty raises her hand, and opens her fist, and the knife falls away; it is copper, and carved with a sun. The cut on her hand is down to bone, and she can see muscle shifting, moving.

_—et destructions et seratore discorde—_

Blood spatters the snow—

 _—conjurae idec nos conjuo et odit_ —

Another voice, a male voice, shouts her name, over and over, but she is not hearing it with her ears. It echoes, like the voices of the trees, in her bones. _Answer me, answer me_ —

Between the skeletal trees, a man in black darts into shadow.

“You did this to yourself, Elizabeth.”

Something—something distinctly not in the dream—twitches against her face, and Betty opens her eyes.

There’s an animal sitting on her collarbone. For a second, she thinks it’s the first Caramel, the original—her sister Polly’s cat, who’d adopted her completely and shunned her sister for her whole twelve year life. She’d died when Betty was thirteen. But the weight on her chest isn’t nearly so much, and the feel of the paws is different. She blinks, and then realizes there’s a tiny wet nose pressing against her jaw.

“Hello,” says Betty. Her voice rasps with sleep. “You must be Razz.”

Razz—how did Razz get here? Her window is shut, as is the closet door, and she can’t imagine her father left any kind of window open anywhere in the house. Then— _that’s a silly thing to think._ Razz is a _familiar_. She could probably go anywhere she likes with some kind of magic spell.

Razz sneezes. All her spines go up at once. A handful of them just barely scrape against Betty’s jaw. Then, just as suddenly, she relaxes, and sniffs at Betty’s jaw again. Betty twists sideways, trying not to disturb the hedgehog, and grabs at her phone. It’s almost five in the morning, a few minutes before her regular alarm goes off. If she listens, she can hear Jughead snoring softly on the far side of her bed, out of sight if her dad jimmies the door open in the middle of the night to check on her. Razz snuffs at her neck and jaw again, and makes a little huffing sound.

“Hello,” says Betty again. She torques her neck for just a second, and then makes a decision; she cups Razz with her bare hands, scooping her off her chest without disturbing any of the spines, and scoots up so she can brace her back to the headboard of her bed, laying Razz back on the comforter. Razz snuffles at her knees, at the fabric of the blanket, before scurrying back and forth. “How’d you get in here anyway?”

Razz sneezes again. She gives Betty a look, and then does a funny little shuffling run to the edge of the bed. After a minute, Betty hears a groan from Jughead.

“’m awake. Razz. Fuck off.”

Razz looks back at Betty, as if to say, _This boy_ , and then vanishes over the side of the bed. Betty turns on her bedside lamp.

“Fuck,” says Jughead thickly from the other side of the bed. “I’m awake! Jesus, Razz.”

“Good morning,” says Betty in a whisper. “Don’t wake my dad.”

“Ah—” Jughead sits up, and almost hits his head on her dresser. He’d taken his hat off to sleep, and his hair is—well, dirty, she thinks. She almost wrinkles her nose. Sticking up all over and filthy. Longer than she remembers. “Fuck—shit, I meant to leave before you woke up—”

“Like _that’s_ not weird,” says Betty. She makes an executive decision. “You shower. There’s fresh towels and stuff in the bathroom and it’s off my room anyway, my dad won’t see you.”

“Because the thing I want most in the world is your dad to see me naked,” says Jughead, and puts a hand up to his head. He has a spot on his cheek where the fabric of her pillow has marked his skin, a funny hexagonal outline. “It’s your shower, you use it. I can just shower at school, it’s fine.”

“You’ll get foot fungus that way.”

“Well, that’s an image,” says Jughead. He has deep rings under his eyes.

“Seriously. Like—last spring the whole football team had foot fungus. Polly told me before I left for L.A. Nobody would own up but everyone thought it was Reggie cause he was the first one with itchy feet.”

“Don’t you know? It’s my one goal in life to say _hey, remember that time I caught Reggie Mantle’s foot fungus_ at our ten-year high school reunion.”

“Jug.”

“Fine.” He doesn’t look at her. “Fine. I’ll—shower. If you’re sure you—”

“I shower after Vixens practice,” she says. “I keep flipflops in my locker.”

Jughead mumbles something that sounds distinctly like _of course you do_ before dragging himself up to his feet. When Betty cranes her neck, she can see that Razz las curled up in the dent left in the pillow by his head, and tucked her nose away under her spines.

Jughead vanishes into her bathroom to shower, and Betty changes clothes, rolling up the sleeping bag and putting it back on the upper shelf of her closet where it’s gone untouched since their single camping trip in Canada when she’d been ten and Polly eleven. It’s made for a much smaller person than her _or_ Jughead, but he hadn’t said a word about it. The clothes hadn’t fit him right either; her biggest hoodie was too small on him, sleeves a clear inch from his wrists, and the pants hung awkwardly. Not to mention patterned with cupcakes, which he’d had a _riot_ about when she’d presented them to him the night before. She makes a mental note to smack him at some point during the day, and settles at the makeup table. She _does_ have Vixens practice this morning, and if she shows up without waterproof mascara (sweatproof, more like) Cheryl will actually skin the soles of her feet.

Jughead has the presence of mind to bring his clothes into the bathroom with him, so when he emerges—hair wet, hat crammed on anyway—he’s back in his jeans and heavy jacket, leaving the borrowed pajamas in an awkward half-fold at the end of her bed. He can’t seem to meet her eyes. Betty crosses her legs at the ankle, and looks at him for just a second before going back to her lashes. “Before you go, I want to talk about our plan.”

“We have a plan?” says Jughead, still not quite looking at her as he sits on the edge of her bed. She hasn’t made it yet. “I was under the impression we were going around half-cocked.”

Betty catches his eye in the mirror, and makes a face at him before returning her focus to the mascara wand. “What time is the meeting at the trailer park?”

“I told them you wouldn’t be able to get away before eleven,” says Jughead. He fidgets. “Unless your dad has changed your electronics curfew.”

“No, it’s the same.” She frowns. “They’re okay meeting that late?”

“Toni works at this local bar, the Whyte Wyrm.” He hesitates. “She’s—pretty nocturnal. And Thomas doesn’t sleep much. Once you hit your first thousand years you kind of stop needing to.”

Betty stops. She turns in her chair. “ _Thousand_?”

Jughead shrugs. “Like I said, he’s one of the Founders. He’s—been around a long time.”

 _A thousand._ Betty looks at her hands, and finds they’re steady. Doing better than her heart at least. “Okay,” she says. “So—that’s tonight. What about school today?”

“I haven’t exactly ever told anyone I’m a witch before,” says Jughead, caustically. “I don’t have a _plan_ for this.”

“No, I meant—” She fights the urge to turn and look at him again, to reassure. “I meant with—with Veronica. And—Archie, and Grundy. And looking into Jason.” _And Polly._ She takes a breath. “All of it, actually.”

When she looks at the mirror again, Jughead’s watching her. His eyebrows have gathered together into one anxious line. “Oh.”

“I’m not telling anyone, Jug,” says Betty, softly. “Nobody.”

“Well.” He shifts. “I mean, Veronica knows. About—me.”

She’d figured that out, funnily enough. “Does Cheryl?”

Jughead laughs, hollow and raw. “Why do you think Jason treated me the way he did? Blossoms think Serpents are shit on their shoes. And he knew I couldn’t fight back without outing myself.”

Betty is suddenly, violently filled by something like _hate_ for her sister’s dead boyfriend. She finishes her mascara, and finds the Alice-approved pink lipstick with her free hand, putting it on her mouth in two harsh swipes. She says, “Why do you want to figure out who killed him?”

“Other than the fact that he might have been murdered by a witch-hunter and it’s kind of a matter of self-preservation?” He shrugs. “Like I said. It’s Riverdale’s _In Cold Blood_. It—exposed something about this town that I want to understand. Something that’s not—magic, or—or witchcraft. Some other secret.”

Betty turns on her puffy chair, and props her chin in one hand, her elbow on her knee. She watches him for a bit. Jughead fidgets, and says, “You’re freaking me out, here.”

“Nothing,” says Betty. “Sorry. Just—I don’t know.” Just that he’s put his finger on something she feels in her bones. She doesn’t know what to feel about it. “So—if Veronica knows about you—”

“Her dad got in massive trouble with the High Priest of their coven,” he says. “He’s—imprisoned under the Vatican, and both Veronica and her mother were excommunicated. They’re not going to try much, and if you’re wearing that pentacle she can’t put another spell on you. She can’t do _anything_ right now.”

Betty nods once, slowly. She touches the necklaces around her neck, and then lowers her hand. “And what about Grundy?”

Jughead’s face shifts. He gets this expression that she remembers, at least in pieces, from when they’d been little, plotting ways to play tricks on Polly or Reggie, this wicked little half-smile that makes his whole face crooked. There’s a level of viciousness that she doesn’t remember from when they were kids, though. Smug and biting and just on the edge of violence. “I had a thought about that, actually.”

Betty opens her mouth, and then freezes. Down the hall, her dad’s door has unlatched. She waves her hand at Jughead—his eyes flare, and then he’s at her closet door, murmuring under his breath. He says, in a hissing voice, “We’ll talk at lunch,” and then he’s through her closet door and it’s shut again, bringing a wave of cool forest air into her room.

Hank knocks on her door. “Betty? All okay in there?”

Betty takes just a second, for herself. Then she fixes the Cooper smile, and unlocks her door to open it. “Yeah, Daddy.”

He looks at her. There are tension lines around his eyes when he leans forward, peers into her room. No evidence remains of Jughead, she thinks. Not even a mark on the floor.

“Who were you talking to?” he says, after a moment. Betty cocks her head.

“Just to myself. I haven’t had coffee yet.”

“Tea,” says her dad, automatically. “Your mom will riot if you stain your teeth.”

Betty makes a mental note to have black coffee for days as soon as she’s allowed to go to Pop’s again. She breathes in through her nose. “Yeah, Dad.”

.

.

.

_You have been added to Groupchat:_ **Baby B’s Love Life???**

_Members of Chat:_ 😈🍆Kevin🍆😈, ♕V♕, Betty

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈: 👀

Betty: _??? Stop texting me in class._

♕V♕: 👀👀👀

Betty: _What is happening right now??_

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈: _oh please bbg please explain to me how you are this oblivious_

♕V♕: 👀👀👀👀👀👀

♕V♕: _Not to out you, but Midge Klump definitely saw you being c o z y with one J Jones during lunch yesterday when you were SUPPOSEDLY working on Blue & Gold layouts._

♕V♕: _She said you were SNUGGLING?_

Betty: _Pay attention to Mrs. Okorafor!!!_

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈: _not on your life babe_

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈: _you think we’re letting this go???_

Betty: _We were just talking about the Twilight._

Betty: _For goodness sake, you guys._

♕V♕: _You’re BLUSHING._

♕V♕: _I can see it from ACROSS THE ROOM._

♕V♕: _Like a BEACON of LOVE and HOPE._

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈: _trading in the ginger bull for the loner bad boy now??_

Betty: _Oh. My. God._

Betty: _Are boys and girls not allowed to hug and be friends without people thinking they’re dating???_

♕V♕ _has changed the name of the chat to_ **Elizabeth Cooper’s Obliviousness Intervention Corner.**

♕V♕: _No._

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈: _it pains me to say it but not when the boy in question is jughead jones_

Betty: _What’s wrong with Jughead??_

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈: _nothing is wrong with him!!! he just doesn’t like anybody!!!!!_

Betty: _What are you talking about??_

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈: _betty you were THERE when he picked that fight with reggie_

Betty: _Reggie was being a dick._

Betty: _He basically accused him of murder._

Betty: _And the football team have treated Jughead terribly since we were in ELEMENTARY SCHOOL, Kevin, you KNOW this._

Betty: _INCLUDING JASON. Not to speak ill of the dead but SPEAKING ILL OF THE DEAD._

♕V♕: _You have to admit he’s nicer to you than he is to other people._

Betty: _Because we are FRIENDS._

Betty: _He and Archie are friends too?? And Jug is just kind of a loner and super introverted._

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈: _oh my god_

♕V♕: _good lord_

Betty: _You two are just gossips._

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈: _good LORD_

😈🍆Kevin🍆😈: _okay i’m done byeeeee_

♕V♕: _I think you out-dramaed Kevin’s ability to can._

Betty: _I’m turning my phone offffffff._

♕V♕: _COWARD!_

 _New message to:_ 🍔Jughead🍔

Betty: _Hey, can we talk before Vixens practice actually?_

🍔Jughead🍔: _first question: betty cooper, are you texting in class? are you breaking RULES now???_

Betty: _Shush._

🍔Jughead🍔: _second question: did something happen?_

Betty: _Have you met Cheryl?_

🍔Jughead🍔: _/snorts_

Betty: _But yeah, Kevin and Veronica are making a big deal cause Midge saw us on the bleachers yesterday. I don’t need them poking their noses into the conversation thinking we're dating._

🍔Jughead🍔: _ah._

🍔Jughead🍔: _i can fight them for you…?_

Betty: _I think that would end badly._

Betty: _Veronica probably bites._

🍔Jughead🍔: _probably, but i feel obligated to offer._

Betty: _Awwww!!_ 🥰

🍔Jughead🍔: _you know how i feel about emojis_

Betty: 🥰🥰🥰

🍔Jughead🍔: _stoooooooop_

Betty: _Fiiiiine but I reserve the right to use them at a later date._

🍔Jughead🍔: _oh god what did i do to deserve this_

Betty: _So meet me after class? In the B &G? It won’t be as much time but we can at least talk? _

🍔Jughead🍔: _might be easier to talk after your practice finishes._

Betty: _Oh! True. Yeah, that works._

Betty: _Thank you for being understanding!!_

🍔Jughead🍔: _you don’t have to thank me, seriously_

🍔Jughead🍔: _unless you want to make it food payments?_

Betty: _To be determined when I get out of Parental Jail._

Betty: _Ooh, but I can bake actually? If I’m gonna be stuck at home for who knows how long I can at least bake things._

🍔Jughead🍔: _i was 1000% joking until you said baking._

Betty: _Hmph, predictable as usual._

_New message in_ **Elizabeth Cooper’s Obliviousness Intervention Corner.**

♕V♕: _DON’T THINK I DON’T SEE YOU SMILING AT YOUR PHONE YOUNG LADY_

.

.

.

She doesn’t know what to say to Veronica.

It was easier yesterday, somehow. She’d still been in shock, mostly. Thinking about things. Hadn’t had a chance to sleep on it. Now she’s awake, and processing, and she has no idea what to say to Veronica. What to ask. _Did you put a curse on me? What happened when we hung out last week? Are you only pretending to be my friend to—_ Betty doesn’t even know what she _could_ do. She doesn’t know enough about magic or witchcraft or Satanism _to_ know. But—

_You can call me V, Betty. I have a feeling that we’re going to be best friends._

_—human toys and secrets—_

She doesn’t know enough to confront Veronica yet. But she can’t learn more _unless_ she confronts Veronica. She’s not sure how to go about any of it.

“Hey,” says Veronica, as they change into their practice uniforms. Betty’s tugging her ponytail tighter, the pinch of pain in her scalp drawing her attention abruptly back to the present. “Is everything okay?”

Betty looks at Veronica out of the corner of her eye. She looks _normal_. And she’s been kind to her, even when she hasn’t been. Veronica, she thinks, is very much a new girl in town, in a way that Betty cannot imagine.

 _What,_ she thinks, all at once, _is a Satanic witch doing in a high school full of mortals?_

Veronica blinks at her, her dark eyes sharpening all at once. It’s the look from Pop’s again, searching as if she can see under Betty’s skin. Betty realizes, all at once, that her necklaces—the cross and the pentacle—have slipped out from beneath her shirt.

“That’s new,” says Veronica. The look on her face—Betty can’t quantify it. Somewhere between inquisitive and blazing. “You weren’t wearing that yesterday.”

“Jughead gave it to me,” says Betty, and tucks it back under her shirt. She looks Veronica in the eye. “He said it’d keep me safe.”

Veronica flinches. She looks up, and down, and to the side, towards the lockers where Cheryl is standing. She bites her lip. “Betty—”

“ _Move_ , bitches,” says Cheryl, and claps her hands. “Gym, now. And—you two. Thelma and Louise.”

Betty blinks. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” Cheryl crosses her arms. “You wait here.”

“So charming,” says Veronica.

The other Vixens filter out of the locker room quickly. Soon, there’s nobody there but the three of them. Cheryl, her hair loose and long like fire; Veronica, arms crossed and her hip propped against the lockers; and Betty, who is completely convinced she’s been mistaken for someone else. Awkwardly, she says, “Cheryl—”

“You are—formally invited to Jay-Jay’s memorial.” Cheryl bites the words, caustic, like it’s a knife. “My mother requested that I give you these.”

Betty doesn’t know what to do, at first. The envelope is beautifully heavy cardstock, dark as shadow, her name written on the front in gleaming silver. She turns it over, weighs it, and looks up at Cheryl. Cheryl’s dark eyes are fixed on her, weighing heavy on her face. Betty stares back. It is, she thinks, sometimes hard to remember what your train of thought was when Cheryl Blossom looks at you _like that_.

“Even me?” says Veronica. Her brow arches perfectly, her vulnerability masked like it had never been. Cheryl darts one look at Veronica, and then looks back to Betty.

“To my surprise and consternation.” She sweeps her long red hair over her shoulder. “The memorial is this Saturday. You _will_ be there.” She stares harder at Betty, and then looks back to Veronica. “ _Both_ of you will be there. In fact—I am—” She takes a breath, not to steady herself, but rather Betty thinks, in preparation. “I am _actually_ holding a sleepover the night before. And I am—formally requesting that you both attend.”

Betty and Veronica don’t speak. They look at each other, the two of them, and Veronica arches an eyebrow at _her_ this time, as if to say, _Are we in real life?_ Betty takes a breath. She puts the invitation in her gym locker, and shuts it, very carefully, behind her. “Cheryl.”

Cheryl smiles her snake smile, eyes crinkling but showing no real affect. “Yes, Bettykins?”

Betty puts a hand on her hip. She says, flatly: “You hate me.”

“I don’t _hate_ you,” says Cheryl. She tips her head back at Betty. “I think you’re like some kind of sickly sweet, overcooked marshmallow, and that your family is a gaggle of swamp-dwelling Grendels that murdered my brother, but I don’t _hate_ you.”

“Right,” says Betty. She turns that over in her head, very slowly. _Thornhill_. “So—your solution is a _sleepover_?”

Cheryl says, “You don’t think I’m going to spend the night before my brother’s memorial _alone_ , do you?”

This is a point that Betty hadn’t considered.

“Besides,” says Cheryl. She darts a look at Veronica, and then at Betty, and then—Betty blinks—she offers her hands. One to each of them. Her smile is a brand of devilish that Betty’s never seen on her when she says, “I think three—people—like us—could get up to something really interesting. You know. The midnight before a funeral.” She tips her head. “Or the witching hour.”

Betty’s heart stops in her chest. Then it starts again. She looks at Veronica, because Veronica—Veronica, who she maybe can’t trust, but who hasn’t _hurt_ her, who hasn’t done something yet to make her think that she’s going to eat Betty alive, is now her only ally. Then she looks back at Cheryl, whose perfectly manicured hands are still held out to both of them. She has the impression that Cheryl, who would normally react with a pretty, venomous quip on being made to wait, would stand there forever with her hands out, waiting for her and Veronica to take them.

A sleepover. Sleeping at _Thornhill._ Thornhill, where Jason lived. Thornhill, which is—likely full of witches. What was it Jason’s ghost had said? _Polly knows what’s in that house_. Her heartbeat jumps from zero to one-twenty, thrumming in her chest like an engine. She takes a breath, in and out. The _things_ she could find in that house. The things she could _learn_. The secrets.

 _Maybe I can find what made Polly sick,_ she thinks. _Maybe I could bring Polly home._

Fingers brush against Betty’s. Betty looks at Veronica, and then down at their hands, at the hand that Veronica has extended to her. Betty takes a breath—her skin is electric—and takes it. Veronica’s hand is all icy lightning, the way it’s always been, the way—the way _Veronica_ has always been, from that first moment. Her magic, Betty thinks. It must be her magic. Like lightning in a strike of hail. Veronica takes Cheryl’s hand too, and then they _both_ look at her, Veronica Lodge and Cheryl Blossom, both witches, both _waiting_.

Betty takes Cheryl’s hand. There is no pressure, not like there is with Veronica’s. Well—no. That’s inaccurate. There _is_ —something. Something deep and dark, as if a creature is moving beneath her feet. But it’s faint, very, very far away. _Weak_? No. Distant. Lost. Holding Cheryl’s hand tastes like ash in her mouth, but not the aftertaste of cigarette smoke. Ash like a volcano, the flavor of a pumice stone against her tongue. Cheryl’s eyes flutter wide, her lashes flaring. Then—very, very slowly—she squeezes Betty’s hand. Her face—softens, ever so slightly. She looks at Betty, and then at Veronica, and squeezes their fingers.

“Wonderful,” says Cheryl. Her voice doesn’t crack, exactly. It’s just not perfectly measured anymore. She sounds almost shaken. She takes a breath, and lets it out, and with it, she drops their hands. “I will inform my parents you’ll be accompanying me home on Friday. You—” She stares hard at Betty. “ _You_ find a way to get out of your parents’ hideous clutches. I do _not_ like being stood up. Especially not by a _Cooper_.”

With that, she’s gone. Betty has the sense she’s left the scent of Pompeii behind her.

.

.

.

_New message from: Dad_

Dad: _When does practice end today?_

Betty: _Five pm like usual, why?_

Dad: _The sheriff wants to talk to you about what happened at the Twilight._

Betty: _Ok_

Betty: _When_?

Dad: _I’ll drive you over after your practice_

Betty: _Today???_

Dad: _Is there a problem with that?_

Betty: _I just have a lot of homework_.

Dad: _You can stay home from church tomorrow to finish it._

Dad: _They’re the police, Betty. You can’t really reschedule._

Betty: _I know._

Betty: _I’ll see you at five._


	14. A Wicked Tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jughead and Archie have a talk. Betty meets a witch hunter. [Part Five of Chapter Five. Overlaps with Chapter Five: Heart of Darkness.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EXTREME CW FOR GASLIGHTING. Like. A LOT of gaslighting in the sequence with Betty. Also, CW for Grundy, cause she's popping up again. I swear to god if I can complete this fic without ever having her actually appear on screen, as it were, I'm gonna do it, because even talking *about* her makes me want to throw up.

It wouldn’t be inaccurate to say that the last few days have completely restructured his universe.

The laws of physics, he thinks, were settled and true, starting the day he’d learned he’d be going to kindergarten. He can’t really remember a time that his parents _didn’t_ fight, but some of their fights that year had been particularly nasty. Gladys wanted him to go to the Academy of Unseen Arts (he hadn’t known what it was at the time, it’d just been _the Academy_ , the way that his mother getting him to drink herb concoctions in the morning was his breakfast, or how Toni babysitting him and Jellybean throughout the years with her face never aging was just _Toni_ ; the fact that the rest of the world didn’t work that way wasn’t obvious to him until elementary school). Barring that, she was demanding he (and later, JB) be educated at home. FP, on the other hand, had wanted him to go to a mortal school, over Gladys’s objections.

In the end, FP had won—backed by other witches in the Circle, who didn’t particularly like the fact that the Serpent King had married a Satanist and didn’t want any baby Serpents going to a Satanist school—and Gladys had, finally, backed down. But the day before he started at Little River Sprouts Pre-K, Gladys had sat him down on the living room couch—because back then they’d still had a living room with a couch, in a house a few blocks over from Elm Street—and told him that if anyone found out what his parents could do, then both Gladys and FP would be taken away and crushed under rocks. He and Jellybean, she’d said, would be brought out to the woods, tied to chairs, and thrown into ponds to drown.

Jughead was so scared he’d been unable to sleep for almost a week, but the rules had been set, firmly. The older he’d grown, and the more he’d learned about magic, about witchcraft and the woods and the Sweetwater, the barrier between his world and the rest of Riverdale, the more those lines blurred—from black and white into a distinctly fuzzy grey. He knew, in his bones, that his mortal friends would not throw him to a witch hunter (mostly because he didn’t think any of them thought witch hunters even existed anymore, or that witches existed _at all_ ) but at the same time, there were lines, distinct boundaries that he could not cross. Other people—mortals, like Archie, like Betty, like the entire fucking football team—were dangerous. Telling mortals the truth meant that the Order of Innocents started sniffing around. And with the Order came violent, violating execution.

He can still remember when he was about ten, and his dad had pulled him and Jelly out to the Sweetwater to watch a handful of Serpents carry a warlock into the River for a funeral. They’d all watched the bloody body dissolve back into the River between their fingers, vanish forever. It’d confirmed for him something Gladys had always told him. Mortals meant danger, and truth meant death. He kept the secrets, or faced the consequences. That was the rule.

He didn’t expect Betty Cooper, of all people, to waltz in and break it.

 _She’s a witch._ He’s still not entirely sure he believes it. He’s never—not _once_ , not in his whole life—seen _anything_ from Betty that would have made him suspect she was a witch. For as long as he’s known her, Betty and Archie have been slotted into his mortal life, the one that the whole of the Circle expects him to leave behind when he starts showing signs of not aging like mortals do. In the decade he’s known Betty he’d never _once_ noticed so much as a single leaf quivering when she lost her temper; not a single broken pane of glass; not wind, not rain, not _anything_. The fire at the Twilight had been _his_ fault, he was convinced; that is, until she’d pointed at him out in Fox Forest and a branch had sheared entirely off the nearest tree to almost hit him in the head. He’d almost _seen_ her magic then, vicious and dark, and he’d forgotten how to speak. He’s still not sure he’s fully processed it, even in the wake of her French fry trick.

_Betty’s a witch. Betty’s a witch. Betty’s like me._

**_You’re quiet._** In his pocket, Razz unfurls, and pokes her head out. He can feel her tiny nose snuffling against his shirt. Jughead looks down, and frowns at her. She’s been clingy lately, not that she’s ever _not_ been clingy, not since he walked into the woods and found a spirit nestled in a hole in a tree, asking if he wanted a friend. Not a goblin, not like the Satanists breed like rats. A _spirit_ , who’s clung to him ever since. **_What are you thinking?_**

Usually he doesn’t reply to Razz at school. The entirety of the North Side already thinks he’s a pyro, he doesn’t need _talks to invisible people_ plastered on top. Nobody’s this high in the bleachers, though, and nobody’s looking at him. He dips his head anyway to hide his lips. “I didn’t notice.”

Razz wriggles around in his pocket. She clambers out, settling on his legs just in front of where he’s put his laptop, and snuffles at him again, the tone of her voice in his head exasperated, per the usual. **_There was no reason for you to be looking for signs. The Coopers are about the most mortal family you could come across. There’s never been a Cooper in the Circle, or in any of the records. We checked, remember?_**

“I still should have noticed,” says Jughead. “I’ve known her forever, and magic is hard to hide.” 

**_It seems like she was practiced at hiding,_** says Razz. He has the distinct sense she’s raising her hedgehog eyebrows at him when she adds, **_I wonder who that sounds like._**

“Thanks, but I don’t need a lecture from a spirit the size of a baseball,” says Jughead, but he strokes a finger along her spines anyway, so she knows it’s a joke. He hesitates. “I don’t know how this happened. Mortals can’t have witch children.”

His first thought was, had been, and continues to be that one of the picture-perfect Stepford Cooper parents cheated on the other. Likely Alice, which tickles his cruel sense of irony. All that poison Alice has poured into Betty’s ear over the years, and _Alice_ is the one to have an affair with a warlock and sire a half-witch child. The idea of either Alice or Hal Cooper—particularly Hal—being witches is completely outside the realm of possibility. They couldn’t be more mortal if they tried, either of them. But he hadn’t wanted to force Betty to look at that, not yet, and maybe not ever if he gets the chance.

 ** _Thomas will know,_** says Razz. Her eyes go half-lidded as he continues to pet her spines. **_And if not Thomas then Toni. She’s good at uncovering secrets. Behind the ear, please._**

He scritches behind her ear, and then goes back to his computer. _Riverdale_ is up on his desktop, but he hasn’t had the energy to write in days. Not since the Twilight, and his arrest, and Betty, and Webster, and Keller. He can barely work up the brain to type the word _the_.

 ** _When will you tell FP?_** says Razz, in a surprisingly stable voice. She doesn’t like FP, and never has. **_About Betty?_**

Jughead’s jaw tightens, almost without his permission. He hasn’t spoken to his father in weeks. The image—no, the _nightmare_ —of telling his dad that _hey, that mortal girl you didn’t want me talking to anymore? Actually she’s a witch, what a surprise, right_ is actually the last thing _on earth_ that he wants to do. Ever. In this lifetime.

 ** _Juggie,_** says Razz. **_You need to tell him. He’s the Serpent King. He leads the Circle. The Twilight was bad enough. If there’s a rogue witch out there, then_** —

“I know,” Jughead snaps. He rubs the end of his nose, hard. “Look, Razz, I know. Okay? I _know_.”

Razz makes an odd, anxious purring sound. She says, **_Jughead._**

“I don’t need you to mother me, okay?” He slams his laptop shut. “I know what I have to do.”

Razz considers. Then, without warning, she sinks all her needle teeth into the web between his forefinger and thumb. Jughead swears, loudly—loud enough that all the football players down on the green look up in confusion, particularly Archie, who tucks his helmet under his arm and goes to talk to Coach Clayton—and snarls. “Razz, what the _fuck_ —”

 ** _You’re being a brat,_** says Razz, firmly. There’s flecks of his blood on her tiny fuzzy jaw. **_Stop feeling sorry for yourself that the girl you like turned out to be a witch. It’s the best thing that could have happened and you know it._**

Jughead’s ears burn. He yanks his hat down over them, and then sucks the blood off his hand. She’s left a series of perfect punctures in his flesh, the kind that forensic odontologists would die for. _Hello, yes, Forensics Files reruns: would you like to make a cast of hedgehog teeth?_ “Jesus, Razz. That’s not—that has nothing to do with anything.”

Razz hums into his mind. Then she licks the tip of his index finger, a tiny apology. **_I know you don’t want to talk to him. I don’t want you to talk to him. But he has to know. And she has to know, too. Who your dad is._**

Jughead sucks more blood off his hand. Archie’s coming up the steps of the bleachers—he doesn’t even have to look up; the vibrations through his seat are enough evidence. “Yeah.”

 ** _I’ll be there,_** says Razz, and something, some knot in Jughead’s throat, eases. **_And—either way, it doesn’t have to be until after tonight._**

“Yeah.”

 ** _Are you planning on sleeping on her floor again?_** Razz’s tone’s gone all wicked and amused. **_Only her pillows smelled good, so if that’s the plan for tonight too—_**

“Oh my god, I _hate you_ ,” says Jughead, and puts her back into his jacket pocket before Archie notices he has a hedgehog on his lap. Thankfully, Archie’s too focused on not tripping over his own feet to see his sudden motion. When Archie makes it up to the top, Jughead’s opened his laptop back up, and is pretending to focus _very hard_ on his manuscript. There are eighty or so different options for what Archie could want to talk about, especially in the middle of football practice, and none of them are necessarily good.

“Jug,” says Archie. The smell of sweat and torn grass that’s layered into his football jersey is so strong that Jughead’s throat is closing already. “Hey.”

“Wow,” says Jughead, unable to help himself. His ears are still burning under his hat. “I merit a trip up the bleachers? I must be special.”

“Don’t make it weird,” says Archie, rolling his eyes, and sits on the bench where Jughead’s placed his feet. He straddles it, one leg on either side, one foot dangling into empty space. “Coach wanted me off the field to let Reggie run reps anyway.”

“Yeah, I heard about your little competition—” Jughead waggles his fingers “—on the grapevine.”

Archie’s eyebrows march up his forehead. “There’s a grapevine?”

“How am _I_ more aware of that than you,” says Jughead.

“Don’t be a dick.”

“Sorry, kind of in my DNA.” Jughead half-closes his computer again. “What’s up?”

Archie looks—awkward. Like he’d rather punt himself across the field as a human football than talk to Jughead about this. “Veronica told me that you and Betty were hanging out up here yesterday.”

“Oh, god,” says Jughead. “Is this the only thing Veronica thinks about? Spreading rumors?”

“Hey,” says Archie, “Veronica’s cool, man. She’s trying to fit in, you know. She’s never been in a place like Riverdale before, she just wants to make friends.”

This is—surprisingly perceptive, for Archie the Human Labrador. Then again, Labradors are supposed to be great service dogs, Jughead supposes. Empathetic and observant, at least about some things. He says, “Sorry, but she’s still eighty times too rich for me to care. The closer your current or former income gets to a small country’s GDP, the less your feelings matter to me.” 

And the fact that Archie and Veronica are talking still makes his hackles rise. Veronica hasn’t done anything to any of the mortals at Riverdale High—other than Chuck Clayton, but Jughead can’t fault her for that one, Chuck was a waste of space—but that doesn’t mean she won’t, in future. And Satanists, to his understanding, still have a tendency to _eat_ mortals that hurt their feelings. Which Archie, being Archie, will do inevitably by accident.

“I don’t get why you don’t like her,” says Archie.

“I don’t like anyone, Archie.” He opens his laptop up again. “With very few exceptions.”

Archie rolls his eyes. “Jug. Come on. If you and Betty are like—I don’t know, like dating or something—”

“Oh my _god_ ,” says Jughead again.

“—I just wanted to say, like, go for it, you know? Like—Betty’s awesome—”

“I’m sure she’ll love hearing you’re trying to giftwrap her for me,” Jughead snaps. “She’s a person, Archie, she doesn’t need your _permission_ to date _anybody_.”

“I wasn’t trying to say she did, Jughead—”

“Then what the fuck is _go for it?_ ”

Archie’s eyebrows snapped together. “I was trying to keep it from being weird, especially after the semi-formal—”

“Yeah, where you turned her down and then went into Seven Minutes in Heaven with a literal stranger? She’s been into you for _years_ , Archie.” In his pocket, he can feel Razz curling into a ball, all her spines extended. “It was a shitty way to treat someone you call a friend. Though, let’s be real, you haven’t been great at being _friends_ with anyone lately.”

Archie looks like he’s been slapped. He says, “Great. Thanks, Jughead.”

It’s the brittle tone that makes Jughead realize he’s gone too far. He takes a breath, lets it out, and rubs a hand over his face. “Sorry,” says Jughead, after a moment. He doesn’t look at Archie. “That was way out of line. I didn’t—sleep much last night. And it’s been a really, _really_ shitty week.”

Archie won’t look at him. He says, “Yeah,” and starts swinging his leg back and forth through the air. “The Twilight, and stuff.”

“And stuff,” says Jughead. “I shouldn’t have snapped.”

“It’s okay,” says Archie. He taps Jughead’s knee with one fist. “Many, many burgers.”

“Yeah,” says Jughead. Archie is—Archie’s an idiot, honestly, but Archie’s his _brother_. And no matter what Archie himself thinks in this situation, he’s being manipulated, which means he has to be—well. As unabrasive as he can. Like that’s easy. He takes a breath, and lets it out. “Look. We’re not dating. Nothing’s going on with me and Betty except the _Blue & Gold. _So—thanks for the permission and everything, but nothing’s happening.”

“Oh,” says Archie. His brows cinch together again. “Okay.”

Down on the field, Reggie shouts out some football-ese. The team starts running at each other, a gaggle of angry bulls. Jughead refuses to think about how just this morning he was in Betty Cooper’s shower, using her shampoo and clean towels, feeling—he’s not even sure. Her shower curtain had ducks on it, but the shampoos had all been unexpectedly _adult_ in a way he’d never thought about. Not flowery, just—rich soft scents that are now on _his_ skin. He hadn’t dared used her soap or body wash, thinking that was a step too far, but every time he turns his head his hair falls into his face and the scent hits him all over again, the knowledge that _this scent_ is also on _Betty Cooper’s_ hair. That rather than pry too far into his homelessness and family bullshit she’d simply tossed cupcake-patterned pajama pants at him and told him to sleep on her floor. That he’d struggled for hours to sleep, because he could hear her breathing less than five feet away and the fact that she just _fell asleep_ with him in the room still makes his whole chest ache.

 _Betty Cooper is a witch,_ he thinks again, and takes a breath. _Betty is like me._

He hitches his shoulders up close, and hopes Archie doesn’t notice that his ears are burning under the hat.

“Do you know—if she’s still looking into Geraldine?” Archie won’t look at him again, for very different reasons, this time. “Like, for the _Blue & Gold_, or something.”

Something unidentifiable and _raw_ surges up Jughead’s throat. Not anger, he doesn’t think. Not at Archie. Frustration, maybe. It tastes like nightshade. “Not that I’m aware of,” says Jughead. “But we haven’t really discussed it.”

“She said she was going to tell my dad,” says Archie, and the first thing that leaps to Jughead’s lips is, _Good._ “When we were—at the station. I just—she can’t tell my dad, Jug. If he finds out, then—”

“Arch,” says Jughead, “I told you before, Betty would rather die than hurt you. She’d walk over hot coals before she hurt any of her friends. She’s not going to like, out you in the paper or something.”

Grundy is another story—Jughead could _absolutely_ see Betty putting _Musical Muse Or Molestation? Anonymous Accounts of Sexual Abuse at RHS_ on the cover of the _Blue & Gold_—but if she thought it would hurt Archie she would _never._

“Yeah, maybe, but like—not putting it in the paper is different from telling my dad.”

Jughead’s honestly surprised Betty hasn’t said anything to Fred. Then again, her parents have been keeping her under pretty close watch. She probably hasn’t gotten a chance yet. “I guess.”

“And—” Archie’s eyes dart to Coach Clayton, then back to Jughead. “I don’t know. We talked before the Twilight burned down, about—Geraldine—and she seemed really angry. She said it wasn’t about Geraldine, but—”

“Then it probably wasn’t,” says Jughead. “Betty doesn’t lie.”

In his pocket, Razz shifts, and says **_At least, not unless she thinks the truth will hurt him worse._**

This is unsettlingly accurate. He wonders how long Razz has actually been paying attention to Betty, if she knows her _that_ well.

“I dunno, man,” says Archie. “She was—I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her that angry. I confronted her about calling Kevin to get some information about Geraldine from the admin office—”

“She did _what_?” says Jughead. A few things clunk into place in his head. “Wait, was this—last week? The day she was sick?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

 _Maybe because the only reason she’d get Geraldine Grundy’s information on the same day she was spending time with Veronica Lodge is that they were doing some kind of spell._ And so far as he’s noticed (not that he’s been paying attention) nothing terrible has happened to Grundy, so it likely wasn’t a curse. Jughead bites the inside of his cheek. “Lucky guess. What’d she ask?”

“Just like—her name and birthdate, I think? It was weird.”

Not if you’re doing a spell of past dealings. Jughead makes a mental note to corner Veronica Lodge as soon as possible.

“Anyway,” says Archie. “I—said some stuff I shouldn’t have—”

“You? Say something you shouldn’t have?”

“Fuck off,” says Archie, but it’s mild. “And she got—really upset. She told me to leave her alone, and I’ve been trying, but like—do you think she’d tell my dad? Because like—I don’t—I don’t want to get in trouble, and I don’t want Geraldine arrested for something that _I_ started—”

Jughead has his doubts about who started what. _He_ remembers, even if Archie didn’t, how Geraldine Grundy treated Archie in music classes last year. Always with the little compliments and the “stay back after class, Archie” and the encouragement to reach out if he needed _anything_. Archie hadn’t noticed, but either Jughead’s watched too many late night documentaries on serial killers and Mary Kay Letourneau or he’s just a suspicious bastard; _he’d_ sure as hell noticed. It’s why he quit music class for a free period. That, and he couldn’t afford to buy his own instrument.

“Archie,” says Jughead, and Archie stops the rambling. He looks at Jughead, all big scared eyes, and the Labrador image comes back all over again. He says, “Look, I haven’t told anyone because _you_ asked me to. But I still think you and Grundy are—I still think it’s fucked. And if Betty tells me she’s going to tell your dad, I’m not going to stop her.”

An odd, blotchy flush races over Archie’s face. “Jug—”

“Archie,” says Jughead. “I’m serious. I’m not going to stop her.”

Archie doesn’t say anything for a long time. Then, abruptly, he stands up. The movement’s so sharp it almost cuts. “Right,” he says, and turns away. “Right.”

Jughead doesn’t call him back. He watches Archie jog back down the bleachers and out onto the field, and he wonders if he’s broken something else in his life utterly beyond repair.

.

.

.

The drive over to the Sheriff’s office is utterly silent.

Kevin had invited himself along. He’d been waiting—for Veronica, Betty thinks; they’ve been hanging out a lot this week, especially while Betty’s grounded—but he’d taken one look at the expression on Betty’s face on her way out of the locker room and come over to talk to her, instead. Then, somehow, he’d managed to get Hal to let him tag along. _My dad was going to pick me up anyway, Mr. Cooper, we have rotary club tonight, I figured it’d be easier if you drove me?_ Betty’s head is still kind of spinning from it, but whenever she looks up into the rearview mirror, Kevin winks at her. It’s reassuring.

“Kevin,” says Hal abruptly, as they sit waiting at an intersection. “Your dad says you’re running the theatre club this year.”

“Yes, sir,” says Kevin. “I’ve been thinking about putting on a production of _Carrie_ this spring, but, you know. The showcase comes first.”

“Right,” says Hal. He drums his fingers on the wheel. Betty watches the pattern, index, ring, index, ring, back and forth. “Tom take you out hunting yet this year?”

“Ah,” Kevin says, and looks a little abashed. “I’m—no, actually, Mr. Cooper. Things keep coming up.”

“Right,” says Hal. He says, “Good thing for a father and son to do, hunting. Learning to live off the land. It’s healthy.”

“I’m vegetarian,” says Kevin. “Actually.”

Betty inspects her fingernails rather than meet her father’s accusatory look. There’s chips flaking off her right thumb.

“Shame,” says Hal after a moment. “Good venison out in Fox Forest.”

“Dad,” says Betty, unable to help herself anymore. “Seriously, it’s Kevin, does he really need the third degree?”

“I’m just making conversation,” says Hal, in the same tone Alice uses. _I’m just making conversation, honestly, Betty._ “You don’t have to be so defensive.”

Betty catches Kevin’s eye in the rearview mirror again. Kevin doesn’t pull a face, exactly, but he does blow air out like a whale, so she doesn’t feel like she’s completely off the mark. Thankfully, they're pulling into the Sheriff's station parking lot, and she leaps out of the car like a prisoner might from jail. 

In the waiting room, when Hal goes up to the counter, Kevin comes close to her to say, "Whoof. Catholic dads, am I right?”

“Funny guy,” says Betty, and elbows him in the gut. Kevin whines. “Seriously, thank you for coming. If I had to sit through another car ride with him I think I would have lost my mind.”

“Hey, anything for my Betty,” says Kevin. He slings an arm around her shoulder, and rests his chin to the top of her head. Her scalp aches with the pressure. “What are best friends for, right?”

“Yeah.” Betty hesitates. She slides her arms around his ribs, and shuts her eyes, just for a moment. Kevin, the perfect best friend who never asks questions, who never called her a freak for having episodes. Kevin, who’s always been firmly on her side, even when it meant calling Veronica Lodge a bitch. She says, “I’m sorry I’ve been weird, lately.”

“Girl, you almost burned up in a fiery apocalypse, it’d be weird if you _weren’t_ weird.” His arm tightens around her. “I’m sorry I haven’t been hanging out with you much lately.”

“You and V should have fun while I’m in jail,” says Betty. She’s—maybe being reckless, encouraging that. But Veronica hasn’t hurt Kevin yet, or _anyone_ so far as Betty can tell, and—honestly, they’re two peas in a pod, Kevin and Veronica. As much as Kevin would refuse to admit it, if Betty and Veronica are on the outs. “Seriously. I don’t mind.”

“You sure?” He lifts his head, looks down at her. “I don’t—want you thinking someone’s replaced my best girl.”

“Oh my god, who are you, James Dean?” She shoves him, and smiles, a real genuine smile, for the first time in what feels like forever. “You’re fine. Have fun. Make friends. Be safe.”

“Fine,” says Kevin. “Force me to hang out with a New York socialite.”

“You’re so shallow.”

Kevin’s eyes flicker. He says, “Actually, something happened at the Twilight that I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

“Oh?”

He darts a look at the desk, where Hal is waiting, drumming his fingers against the tabletop. “I, uh—”

“Betty,” says Hal sharply, and Betty can’t help it. She yanks away from Kevin as a reflex, and Kevin lets her go. He knows, and she knows, that her dad can get really pissy at the drop of a hat. She makes an apologetic face at Kevin, and then slips away to stand by her dad at the counter. Hal looks over the top of her head at Kevin as Deputy Dixon comes out from the back, a clipboard in one hand. “The sheriff’s ready to see us.”

Betty folds her fingers in and out of fists. Her tongue is dry, and swollen, somehow, at the same time. “Us?”

Hal looks down at her. His face softens, something she hasn’t seen since before the Twilight burned, as he says, “I’m not letting you go in alone, Betty. Don’t worry.”

Relief floods her system, followed by anger, resentment, _sickness_. This was something that Jughead’s dad didn’t bother to do. She hesitates. “Do we need a lawyer?” She thinks of Daniel Webster, his bright blue eyes and funny expression when he’d noticed her. “Only—I know it’s just Sheriff Keller, but—”

“He just wants to ask you a few questions about what happened at the Twilight,” says Hal. He puts a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be right there. It’s okay, Betty.”

Betty looks back. Kevin, though, has vanished somewhere into the station. Probably towards his dad’s office, if she has a guess. That, or sneaking outside to try and bum a cigarette from one of the deputies. It’s kind of an open secret that Kevin smokes, at least on Riverdale High grounds. He hates that he smokes, but he does it. Last Betty heard, he was trying to get hold of a vape pen so he stopped smelling so much like a forest fire.

“Okay,” says Betty after a moment, and lets her dad steer her deeper into the sheriff’s station.

Deputy Dixon’s smile is thin and tight, like his belt is pulled too close around his waist. He takes them down one hall, and then another, to a room marked _Int. 1._ Betty, in that moment, can only think of the opening to an episode of _The Confession Tapes_ , a bare room and a cop and pressure from all sides to admit something that didn’t even happen. Cops do it all the time. She _knows_ that. She’s seen more than enough true crime documentaries and spent enough time on Tweeter and read enough books by Angela Davis to know _that._ And _she has done something_ , has lit the Twilight on fire with her temper, so—so what does that mean for her?

“Sheriff’ll be with you in a second,” says Deputy Dixon. “He’s talking with the arson investigator.”

Her dad lifts his head. “From Portland?”

“Yeah.”

Betty folds her arms tight around herself.

“You want coffee?” says Deputy Dixon.

“Please,” says Hal. Betty shakes her head. Deputy Dixon gives them both another taut smile, and then leaves the room.

“It’ll be fine,” says Hal, clearly trying to be soothing. Betty doesn’t look at him.

“Jughead didn’t do anything, Dad. This whole investigation is stupid.”

“The police have to clear him either way.”

“They _arrested him_ without any evidence, Dad! That’s not an investigation, that’s—” _A witch hunt._ She bites her tongue. “That’s like—he didn’t _do anything_. He didn’t _do_ anything and I don’t—”

“Betty,” says Hal. His voice is iron. “I don’t want to argue about this here.”

“Fine,” says Betty, and looks at the wall. She taps her fingers against her arm. “So when are we going to talk about the fact that you hate my friends and seem to think Jughead is some kind of _monster_?”

“I don’t hate your friends, Betty,” says Hal, through his teeth. “But when you lay down with dogs, you tend to get fleas.”

“Oh my _god_ , Dad—”

“—and the last thing I want is for you to ruin your future—”

“ _He’s my friend_ —”

The door opens. Sheriff Keller—worn, tired, anxious-looking, rough-shaven Sheriff Keller—stops in the frame, looking at them both. Beside him is a small young woman with long, curly blonde hair, framing her face as if she’s an image of a person, not a real live human. Her eyes, Betty thinks, are cool and reflective, like glass. She looks like she’s barely out of high school.

It’s a full beat, a full pin-drop moment, before it hits her. Nausea, cramping and curling. Acid rushes up her throat and into her mouth, and it takes every ounce of self-control she has to not just vomit on the interrogation room table. Betty looks at the woman, and the woman looks back at her, and every hair on Betty’s body stands up. _Run,_ something hisses, deep in her chest. _Run. Run._

She digs her nails into the palms of her hands.

Sheriff Keller looks at the pair of them, Hal and Betty sitting on one side of the interrogation table. “Everything okay?”

“We’re fine.” Hal stands, and sticks out his hand to shake the Sheriff’s. “Good to see you, Tom.”

“Betty,” says Sheriff Keller. Betty hasn’t stood. She sits there, guts cramping, swallowing hard.

“Sheriff.”

“Hal, Elizabeth, this is Mariah Solomon from the Portland Fire Department. She’s a licensed fire investigator who’s come up to help us with the investigation into what happened to the Twilight.” Sheriff Keller looks at Betty for a long, awful moment before adding, “Mariah, this is Hal and Betty Cooper.”

Mariah Solomon looks at Betty, and then says, “Nice to meet you both.”

Betty nods, once. She doesn’t speak.

“Sorry that it took us so long to come talk to you, Betty,” says Sheriff Keller. He sits in the chair opposite her, spreading files across the table. “What with everything that’s happened with Jason, we wanted to take a breath to get a handle on what’s going on.”

Betty wets her lips. “Kevin told me your files on Jason got stolen.”

Hal resettles in his chair, and turns to collect the mug of black coffee Deputy Dixon brings in the room. Mariah Solomon hasn’t sat down. She’s leaning beside the door, arms folded neatly against her chest. She has a crucifix around her neck like Betty’s, small and golden, but on a shorter chain, clearly visible in the hollow of her throat.

“That’s accurate,” says Sheriff Keller, though he looks slightly pained. He looks at Hal, and then at Mariah Solomon. “Night the Twilight burned down.”

“I didn’t know that, Tom,” says Hal.

“We’ve been trying to keep it quiet,” says Sheriff Keller, eyeing Betty. “For I think what must be obvious reasons.”

And she’s…probably put Kevin in the hot seat by blurting it out. Betty blazes on. “Do you think whoever killed Jason took the file so you can’t put something together?”

“That’s one possibility,” says Sheriff Keller. “That or someone else who maybe wants to mount their own investigation and see what the office has managed to collect. Though I don’t see how it’s any of your business, Betty, considering you’re not even sixteen.”

“How old are you?” says Mariah Solomon suddenly, and Betty swallows. She forces herself to look at this woman, forces herself to meet her glassy gaze. She will not show fear. She _will not_.

“Almost sixteen,” says Betty. “My birthday’s in November.”

“Hm,” says Mariah Solomon.

“We’re getting off topic,” says Sheriff Keller. He opens a file. There, in glossy photo print, is the burned-out husk of the Twilight Drive-In. There’s a single motorcycle in the shot, someone in a Serpent coat riding away. Other than that, it’s nothing but the skeleton of a building, charcoal black phalanges sticking up into the summer sky. “I know you gave a statement at the scene, but I just wanted to check in and see if you’ve remembered anything. Maybe start from the beginning.”

She’d barely given a statement at the scene before her father had literally carried her away. Betty folds and refolds her hands in her lap. “From—from the beginning of the day, or—”

“Beginning of the day is fine.”

“Um. I—woke up sick.” She darts a look at her father. “Spent most of the afternoon in the nurse’s office. She—thinks it was food poisoning. I was mostly feeling better by the evening, and it was—it was the last show the Twilight would ever do, so. Me and Kevin and Veronica wanted to go.”

“That’d be Veronica Lodge?”

“Mmhm.” She watches him scratch a few words on a piece of paper. “It—a lot of people were there. Like, almost all of Riverdale High.”

“Anyone in particular you remember?”

“Ben Button,” says Betty. Ben, who’d been flustered enough by her flirting to give her the key to the projection booth. “I saw—Moose Mason and his girlfriend. They were talking to Kevin and Veronica in the line at the concession stand. The Pussycats were there, in Val’s truck. Um, Ethel Muggs. Dilton. Most of the River Vixens.”

“Cheryl Blossom there?” says Sheriff Keller.

“No, sir.”

He makes another note.

“Mr. Andrews was there, too,” says Betty. And a woman Betty hadn’t recognized, but had. She takes a breath. “With a friend, I think? I’ve never seen her before.”

“What was the plan?”

She swallows. “Um—I still had a headache. So—I sat at the truck while Kevin and Veronica went to get popcorn and stuff. I texted Jughead to let him know we’d arrived.”

“He was there?”

“He was the projection booth operator.”

Sheriff Keller nods.

“You go there often?” It’s Mariah Solomon, this time, not the Sheriff, who asks. She refolds her arms, tipping her head ever so slightly. Her long hair drips over her shoulder. “The Twilight.”

“Not really? Mostly when I go it’s to see Jughead, he’s worked there for like, eighteen months.” She bites her tongue. “I don’t know what you all are thinking, but—Jughead didn’t do anything. You shouldn’t have arrested him.”

Hal puts his hand on her knee, and digs in with his fingers. _Easy breezy beautiful,_ she thinks. _Nice and sweet, always_. She wants to spit in her father’s face.

“We didn’t arrest him,” says Sheriff Keller. He’s not looking at her. “We brought him in for questioning. There’s a difference.”

This is so blatantly untrue that it hits her like a punch to the face. Betty can’t help it. She scoffs. “You brought him _here_ to talk to him and then wouldn’t let him out. We had to get a _lawyer_ for you to let him go.”

“He was free to leave when he chose.”

“Yeah,” says Betty. “Just like _I_ am, right?”

Hal’s nails dig into her knee as he says, “Elizabeth.”

“You’re free to leave whenever you like,” says Mariah Solomon, and a small smile flickers around her mouth. “We just want to hear what happened. From your perspective, Beth.”

“I prefer Betty,” says Betty. “Or Elizabeth. If that’s okay.”

Mariah waves a hand, as if to say, _same thing._

“A few other people said they saw Jughead and Veronica Lodge arguing,” says Sheriff Keller. “Do you know what that was about?”

Betty can’t help it. She takes another second to dart a look at her dad. “Um,” she says. “Probably—probably me?”

“Why do you say that?”

“It doesn’t matter. Jughead didn’t light the Twilight on fire. He _loved_ the Twilight. It was—” Her throat closes up, thinking of the cot. “It was basically his home.”

“We heard from—” Sheriff Keller checks his notes, as if he has no idea who does what in Riverdale High School, like he hasn’t kept an iron tab on Kevin’s social life since he was six years old. “Melody Valentine that it seemed like they weren’t happy with seeing each other.”

“Veronica’s new,” says Betty. “And she’s—it doesn’t matter. They just don’t get along very well. And them not liking each other doesn’t mean he burn the Twilight down.”

Sheriff Keller looks at her for a long time. “Okay,” he says, after a moment. “What’d you do next?”

“I—saw them arguing from where I was,” says Betty. She has blood under her nails. She can feel it, warm and wet. There’s a balloon swelling in her stomach, wider and wider, the rubber going taut with the scream she’s keeping in. “So I went to check on Jughead, after.”

“Was he in the booth?”

“Yeah,” she says. “We—we were talking for a bit. Jughead got upset. So we—we went on a walk so he could get some fresh air.” _God, please let this match what he told the Sheriff._ “I mean—we both kind of went on independent walks? He was really frustrated so it was easier to split up after a while.”

“He’s not supposed to leave the booth while a movie is playing.”

“Yeah, well, he made a mistake,” Betty snaps. “He can get fired. He’s not responsible for the place burning down. And the Twilight was _old_ and nothing worked right, there were like a million complaints lodged against the owner, weren’t there, Dad? That it was dangerous? We ran a piece in the _Register_ last month about it, I remember—”

Hal looks uncomfortable. “Well—”

“And Jughead’s _fifteen_ , he doesn’t have a clue how to fix a wonky projector—if that was what caused it, I don’t know, _we weren’t there_ —so it’s _not_ his fault and the fact that you all are just—”

“Betty,” says Sheriff Keller. “I need you to sit down.”

Betty can’t remember standing. She looks down at her hands, balled up into fists, and slowly—very slowly—she eases her way back down into the chair. The balloon in her stomach is making her whole body hurt. Sheriff Keller studies her face for a long time. Then, carefully, he pulls another file close to him, and opens it. Betty’s not great at reading upside down, but she can read the typewritten header easily enough. _Riverdale Juvenile Delinquent Center._ Her guts turn to frost.

“Just to confirm,” says Sheriff Keller. “You’re—aware that Forsythe—”

“Jughead,” says Betty. Sheriff Keller’s jaw clenches. It’s the first time he’s shown any temper, and she kind of wants to draw it out more. She thinks, if she weren’t wearing Jughead’s pentacle, the walls would be shaking with her rage at this point. “His name is _Jughead._ ”

“Jughead,” he says, after a moment. “You’re aware that six years ago he spent some time with the Juvenile Delinquent Center for—” He hesitates, looks down at his papers again. “For attempting to burn down Riverdale Elementary School?”

“You shouldn’t be telling me that,” says Betty. “That’s his record. That’s _private_ , he’s a minor—”

“You’re not a sheriff _or_ a police detective, young lady,” says Hal. “Show some respect.”

“Dad, he can’t just _share that with people_ , that’s private information—”

“So you were aware,” says Sheriff Keller.

“ _Yes._ He’s been my best friend since we were _five_. Of _course_ I knew.” She’s still not sure _Archie_ knows, since Jughead had played it off like he’d gone to visit his grandma in Toledo for a month, but she’d been there when the teacher had put him in the back of the police car, back in elementary school. _She_ knew. “That was an accident too, he was just—he was just messing with a match and a book caught on fire, that’s _all_ , the librarian made it a big deal because she _hated him_ —”

“There’s a pattern here,” says Sheriff Keller. “A pretty distinctive one. Your friend—Jughead—you know, poor kid from the wrong side of the tracks, deadbeat dad, bullied by the football team, threatened by you finding new friends—things seem to burn down when he gets angry.” He leans forward, and says, softly, “Betty—if you’re scared of him, or scared of getting into trouble for telling the truth, we can help you. If he’s done anything—strange—I want you to know that you’re safe, here.”

 _Strange._ It rings inside her. _Strange. Strange. Strange._

“Strange like what?” says Betty, through numb lips. Keller looks at Mariah Solomon, so fast she almost misses it. An arson investigator, she thinks. From Portland. But so _young_ , and—the cross—lots of people wear crosses, but—

 _In the forties, when the Blossoms turned up, the fort had kind of fallen apart, but the—Order—stuck around even after the town got founded in ’47_ , Jughead had said. And: _They just get culty and decide that the only kind of good witch is a dead one._

“I don’t know,” says Keller, slowly. “Why don’t you tell me?”

The balloon inside her bursts.

“He hasn’t done anything to me,” says Betty, and shakes her dad’s hand off. She stands up. “He would never burn down a library. And he would _never_ burn down the Twilight.”

Keller leans back in his chair. Frustration flickers across his face. “Betty—”

“No,” says Betty. “No, my turn. You don’t _actually_ think Jughead burned down the Twilight. You’re just corrupt, and bad at your job, and wanting to point the finger at the first person who doesn’t _belong_ to cover up the fact that you’ve done _nothing_ to find out who murdered Jason Blossom, because that way you score some credibility points and get reelected. Isn’t that right?”

“ _Elizabeth Cooper,_ ” says Hal. “You sit down—”

“Dad, this is _stupid_ , I told you I didn’t want to do this—”

“Betty,” says Sheriff Keller. He stands, too, one hand out, placating, quiet. “I’m just trying to figure out what happened. You don’t have to yell and get upset—”

“I’m not upset,” says Betty. “And I’m not yelling. _I’m angry_. You don’t get to say he did something he didn’t do just because it’s _easier_ —”

“That’s not what we’re doing, Elizabeth, I need you to calm down—”

“ _I am calm_ ,” says Betty. Her voice is hard as stone. “You’re accusing him of something he didn’t do, without evidence, and acting like he’s blackmailing and hurting me, _which he isn’t_ , because it’s easier for you to arrest _him_ and put him away—” _and maybe even murder him_ “—than it is to actually look for a _murderer_. And I am _done_ talking to you. I want to go home.”

Hal has turned the color of a tomato. He stands, and, in a voice she’s never heard before Polly started dating Jason, he says, “Elizabeth—”

“Betty,” says Mariah Solomon. She tips her head, just so, to the side. “Is Jughead Jones a Satanist?”

They all freeze. Sheriff Keller, whose face turns the color of Elmer’s Glue; Hal, her father, who shudders to a halt and stares; and Betty, whose fists are shaking so violently at her sides she’s surprised she hasn’t sprained a muscle.

“ _No_ ,” she says. “For _God’s_ sake. Now _let me out_.”

“Betty, sit down—”

“No,” says Sheriff Keller. He looks at Mariah Solomon. Mariah Solomon shakes her head, ever so slightly. “It’s okay, Hal. We can meet again later, when Betty’s feeling more up to it.”

“You’re not _listening to me_ ,” Betty says. “I am _done_ talking about this.”

“Betty—”

Betty shoves past Mariah Solomon—Mariah, whose hand brushing against her side feels like ice shearing off a glacier—and opens the interrogation room door. It’s not locked—their loss, she thinks—and before her dad can catch up she’s halfway down the hall, following signs that say _Front Desk_ tacked to the walls with push pins. She almost slams into Deputy Dixon near the exit to the reception area, jostling him just enough that coffee spills down his deputy’s uniform. She can’t bring herself to care. She still has her phone, at least—her dad hadn’t confiscated it from her in front of Kevin—and the next decision is probably the easiest she’s made in years.

She calls Veronica.

“Are you at school still?” says Betty.

Veronica, on the other end, says, “What? B, what’s going on?”

“ _Are you at school_?”

“No, I’m at Pop’s with Val and Archie, wh—”

“Is Jughead there?”

Annoyed, Veronica shuffles around. Betty turns sharply up the road, away from the main streets. Her dad will be looking for her in the major neighborhoods and thoroughfares, not back alleys. She’s up into an easy jog and in the narrow lane between the bookstore and the single café other than Pop’s in town, the Bump and Grind, when Veronica says, “Yes, he’s here.”

“Okay,” says Betty. She takes a breath. “I need you to get Jughead and I need you to meet me behind Pop’s in ten minutes.”

“Betty,” says Veronica, “what’s—”

“Just _do it_ , Veronica, please,” says Betty, and hangs up the phone so she can run. 


	15. Wicked Pact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Betty, Jughead, and Veronica clear the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Some mentions of Grundy, and some of police bullshit. Mentions of cannibalism. Recounting of coming out to parents and having them react badly.

After dark, the back of Pop’s Chock’lit Shoppe turns into a hangout for Riverdale High School stoners, and the couples who want to make out away from the prying eyes of their school friends but don’t have the patience to head out to Lovers’ Lane. Thankfully the place isn’t really bopping yet, so when Betty finally manages to dart around the building to the back parking lot, Veronica and Jughead are alone, out of sight of the security camera, and standing on either side of a massive dumpster that someone has spray-painted with a silver, three-pointed crown. They’re standing about as far apart as two people who are waiting for the same person _could_ be standing, and Jughead has his arms knotted tight over his chest like tree roots. Betty wonders what Veronica told Archie and Val.

It only takes one look at her face for Veronica to say, “we’re going to the penthouse” and march off to get an Uber, or call her mom, or _something_. Betty doesn’t say anything. She sags a little, taking deep gasping breaths—sprinting from the sheriff’s office to Pop’s wouldn’t be enough to wind her on a normal day, but she’s _angry_ , and scared, and the adrenalin doesn’t help—and rests her shoulder to the dirty brick besides the dumpster to take some of the weight off. Jughead’s eyes cut over her head towards Veronica, who has her back turned to them and is talking in quick Spanish, before reaching out and tentatively squeezing her shoulder with one hand. Betty looks up at him, and sags even more. Her phone is off—it’d been her first move, after calling Veronica—and she can only hope that’ll stop the location app from functioning. She doesn’t want to be around her dad right now. She _doesn’t_ want to go home.

“The Sheriff,” she says, and then stops. Now that she’s out of that tiny room, it seems so stupid, thinking that Sheriff Keller is a witch hunter, or, at least, calling one in. She wets her lips, tries again. “The arson investigator—”

Jughead’s lips tighten. He searches her face. The weight of his hand on her shoulder is comforting, more than anything. Betty fights the urge to put her hand over his, squeeze his fingers. He says, “Did they ask you if you’re—”

He stops, clearly not wanting to voice it aloud.

“No.” Betty shakes her head. “They—they asked about _you_.”

Jughead’s pale by nature, but what little color is in his face drains at those words. He takes a breath, lets it out slowly. Betty can’t help it. Her eyes blur out with tears as she hugs him, wrapping her arms tight around his ribs and squeezing as hard as she can, remembering only at the last second to loop her arms _under_ his jacket rather than over. She doesn’t want to crush Razz. Jughead goes stiff as a board, spine like a strip of iron against her hands. Then, slowly, he sags, and lets his arms settle around her, resting his head to hers. He smells like her shampoo and like boy-sweat and like Jughead, coffee and the scent that hangs in Pop’s, all fries and burgers and something else, but it’s not a nasty smell. The combination is a bit odd, but it’s reassuring. It’s like home. Betty squeezes her eyes shut, and holds on for a long, fraught moment.

“I’m sorry,” she says, into his shirt. “This is my fault. The Twilight—that was because of me and now you’re—now they’re—Juggie, I’m _so_ sorry—”

Jughead’s hands go stiff against her back. He grips her shoulders, pushes her back just a bit. His eyes dart over her head again at Veronica, but Betty honestly doesn’t care if Veronica’s paying attention right now, or if she’ll spread rumors later, or drag Kevin in to gossiping about her panic. Jughead shakes her, very gently, more just swaying her back and forth on her feet with his hands on her shoulders.

“Hey,” he says, after a moment. His gaze darts over her face, brow, nose, jaw, back up to her eyes. “It’s okay.”

“But—”

“Betts.” Jughead taps the tip of one finger to the underside of her chin. Her mother does that sometimes, when she wants Betty to hold her head _just_ so for a photograph, but it feels different when Jughead does it. More affectionate, less controlling. “It’s okay.”

Her heart hurts. Betty swipes tears off her cheeks with the back of her hand, and Jughead, to her shock, hooks an arm around the back of her neck to tug her back into him. Under his coat, she feels something shuffle. Razz, in an inner pocket. She hiccups out a laugh, and slides her hand back under his jacket to cup her palm over the wiggling lump. “Hi, Razz.”

A damp hedgehog nose touches the tips of her fingers, sniffing curiously. When Betty looks up at Jughead again, the space behind his ears is bright red.

“She says hi,” he says, in a voice that cracks, just a bit. Betty blinks.

“She talks?”

“To me,” Jughead corrects. “She talks to me.”

Razz sneezes against Betty’s fingers, and goes back to snuffling.

“All right,” says Veronica, all brisk. Jughead immediately lets go of her, leaving Betty cold despite the warmth of the late summer evening. “The Uber will be here in three minutes.” She eyes Jughead, just for a moment. “Are you both coming, or—”

Betty seizes Jughead’s sleeve in one hand, before he can speak. He looks at her. Then, carefully, he wets his lips and says, “Do I need to make a formal request?”

Veronica’s eyes go sharp. She and Jughead seem to speak silently, just for a moment. Then, slowly, the sharpness fades. “No,” she says. “Thanks, though. Mami will be _delighted_ to entertain you both. And, well, if the Circle would _like_ to owe us a favor for this, we won’t say no.” 

Jughead audibly scoffs, but then he looks down at Betty’s hand on his sleeve. She can see his throat working. “Fine,” he says. “Lead the way, Jennifer Check.”

The Uber driver must pick up on something, cause he’s absolutely silent when they clamber into his car, Betty and Jughead in the back. Jughead shuts the car door before Veronica can climb in after him, and with a huff that Betty can _see_ , Veronica takes the front passenger side. Betty nudges Jughead in the arm, frowning at him, but he just raises his eyebrows at her as they pull out of Pop’s parking lot.

They pass Hal’s car on the street, Betty bending down so her dad can’t see her in the back of an Uber with Veronica Lodge and Jughead Jones. Jughead touches her back and says, “He’s gone,” when they’re out of sight, and Betty can’t help it. She seizes his hand where it rests on the canvas seat of the Uber, and squeezes it hard, looking backwards out the rear window for any sign of the red hatchback. It’s parked in Pop’s front parking lot, but there’s no sign of her dad. Jughead’s hand is warm, and he tentatively curls his fingers around hers, holding on just as tight even as he turns away to watch Riverdale flicker past the window. When Betty catches Veronica’s eye in the rearview mirror, Veronica ticks one perfectly plucked eyebrow up her forehead, but says nothing about it. 

The Pembrooke smells of expensive soap and the sickly cardamom scent that’s put in candles. Jughead’s arms are crossed back over his chest, his eyes flicking over the foyer, the elevator, the front desk with the security guard, everything. Veronica doesn’t notice. She swipes through her phone, and then says, “They’re with me,” to the security guard without bothering to meet his eyes. The security guard—a man in his fifties, pudgy and weathered—nods once, and watches them all pass with sharp eyes, trying to pick out secrets. Betty’s let go of Jughead’s hand, and he’s tucked his fists into the pockets of his sherpa jacket. His messenger bag keeps thumping repeatedly against his knee. Betty wets her lips and looks at the chandelier hanging from the ceiling—

_Bless your mind bless your heart let these painful thoughts depart—_

A nail piercing the space behind her right eye—

“Hey,” Jughead says, very gently resting the tips of his fingers to her arm. Betty opens her eyes. Veronica’s jabbed her manicure into the button marked _Penthouse_ , and has switched from staring at the screen of her phone to staring at _them_. She’s altogether looking too much like a satisfied cat for Betty’s liking, like she’s put something together that’s delighting her. “You okay?”

“My head hurts,” says Betty, and rubs at her temple. On a second thought, she pulls her phone from her pocket, pries it open, and takes the battery out of it, pressing it into Jughead’s hand. “Keep that.”

Jughead blinks at her.

“My dad has an app on my phone,” says Betty, uncomfortably. Thankfully, her phone is old enough she can easily get the battery out, unlike Veronica’s fancy slim thing. She’s due for an upgrade, she thinks. For now, this is fine. “So. In case he tries to turn it on remotely.”

Jughead’s eyes darken. He closes his fist over the battery, and shoves it hard into his pocket.

“A location app?” says Veronica in surprise. Betty shrugs.

“He got—my parents weren’t happy when they found out I went to the sheriff’s station on Saturday. They’ve been pretty—strict.”

Jughead’s face gets whiter, if possible, and then dark with rage. Betty, automatically, reaches out to touch his sleeve again, and he lets her, turning just slightly so he’s facing more towards her than the elevator door or Veronica, like he’s putting himself between her and the world. Veronica gives Betty another significant look around Jughead, her lips curling up triumphantly, and Betty gets a flash of memory, Veronica winking at her from across Mrs. Okorafor’s classroom. _You have to admit he’s nicer to you than he is to other people._

“I don’t want him to know I’m here,” she says. “He—he kind of thinks you’re both terrible.”

Veronica waves this off, as this is a normal reaction from her friends’ fathers. “What about your mom? Will she be coming to look for you here?”

“She’s still away for a women in journalism conference.” Betty shrugs. “She’s not due back for another few days. Unless Dad tells her what happened, but—but I don’t think he will. It’ll just stress her out, knowing he doesn’t know where I am.”

Veronica nods. She looks back down at her phone. “Mami says you can both stay as long as you want,” she says. “And that if you’re worried you should at least stay overnight. You can use my computer to let your dad know you’re safe, if you want.”

“Thanks, V.”

Veronica gives her a thin smile, and says, “Anything for you, B.”

Betty thinly smiles back.

Betty doesn’t remember coming to Veronica’s penthouse to study, but the doorway, the smell of the apartment, the feel of house slippers under her toes, all trigger something in the back of her mind that makes her stomach hurt. Jughead outright refuses to put on the house slippers, eyeing the stitched patterns in the tops of the shoes like they’re snakes, but he does concede to taking off his combat boots, so it’s with Betty in blue velvet slippers and Jughead in bare feet that Veronica leads them through the penthouse to what must be her bedroom. Veronica’s room is lit with dim red lights, and when she flicks a switch to turn on the overhead, a big black lump of a cat lifts his head from the bedspread, and blinks slowly at all of them.

The nail jabs deep into Betty’s brain again.

_His name is Pyewacket._

“I’ve been in here before,” she says. Her mouth feels very distant from the rest of her. “In—here.”

On the bed, the massive black cat sits up, and curls its tail around its paws. It blinks at her slowly, big green eyes almost luminescent. Jughead grips Betty’s shoulder again, and the touch grounds her back to earth.

“I’ve been in here before,” says Betty again, and finds Veronica. Veronica stands at the end of the bed, reaching out to rest her fingers on the cat’s head, as if the fur is comforting. “Veronica, we—we did a spell in here that day. Didn’t we?”

Veronica’s the one to go pale, now. Her throat works. She turns away abruptly, and scoops the cat up into her arms, hiding her nose and mouth in the ruff of deep black fur around its throat.

“A spell about Grundy,” says Jughead. “Right? A spell of past dealings?”

“How do _you_ know?” Veronica glares at Jughead. “Are you _spying_ on us, Jones?”

“Archie said Betty called Kevin to get Grundy’s name and birthdate from the records,” Jughead snaps back. “It’s not that fucking hard to figure out, _Lodge_. Though it begs the question what the _hell_ you thought you were doing—”

“ _Guys_ ,” says Betty, because her head is aching at the feeling in the room, the tension, like static and water pressure. “Can we just—”

“I _told you_ , it wasn’t me, it was—” Veronica swallows again. “Betty, I’m so sorry, I meant to tell you ages ago, but with—everything that happened, I just—”

“It doesn’t—it doesn’t matter, okay?” Betty rubs her temples. “I just want to know what happened, why I can’t—remember. It doesn’t matter now.”

“Mami spelled you,” says Veronica. “She—she wouldn’t listen to me. She thought I’d brought a mortal in to do a spell, and I _told_ her you weren’t, but she didn’t—didn’t believe me. She thought that if you could remember then you’d tell someone and then we’d have to move again and—and I’m so, so sorry, Betty. I’m so sorry. I tried to stop her, but she’s—she’s my _mom_. Now that my dad is—” Her throat works. “Mami is all I have. And she was trying to keep us safe. I couldn’t—I couldn’t stop her.”

The words fall like drops of water into her mind. Betty thinks of dark eyes hanging over her, the sickness, Veronica and Jughead arguing in the dirt beside the Twilight’s concession stand. Jughead gesturing back to her. She turns to look at him.

“The tea should have fixed it,” he says. His mouth creases sharp at the corners, eyes on Veronica like she’s holding a knife. “I don’t know why your memories aren’t back.”

Her memories aren’t back, exactly, but neither are they fully gone. She can see Pyewacket in her head, a lit candle. A pencil dangling from a string.

“We got names,” she says. “Of—boys.”

“Yeah,” says Veronica. “Grundy’s secrets. I—I didn’t know what to do with the list, since you couldn’t remember. So I—I kept it.”

Betty’s guts leap. She almost vomits. _Secrets. Other boys like Archie. Boys who Grundy’s molested._ She presses the back of her hand to her mouth, shuts her eyes and breathes. Jughead hasn’t let go of her shoulder. There’s an odd pressure in the touch, not unlike the sparking ice that she gets from Veronica. With Jughead it’s more like running water and the pressure in your ears when you dive too deep too fast into a pool. She’s never felt it from him before, but she has the distinct sense that _this_ is his magic, water pressure and river rapids, rushing towards some end she can’t see. She swallows again, until the bile recedes.

“It’s okay,” says Betty. There’s nothing else she can say, really. If she yells and screams and cries, then she won’t stop. And she doesn’t _want_ to yell at Veronica. Maybe that makes her a pushover, but she’s so fucking _tired_ of fighting with Veronica, of Jughead and Veronica fighting over her. She just wants it to stop. “Just—why did you bring me here?”

Veronica looks up from Pyewacket. The cat is completely still in her arms, paws resting on one of her shoulders like a perched parrot. She has a mask on, Betty thinks. Something Betty _knows_ , deep in her gut, because she has one too. Veronica’s isn’t as good as Betty’s is, though. There’s something brittle around her edges, something fragile, like cracking frost. She says, “I just—wanted to help.”

She doesn’t think Veronica is lying. The feelings, Betty thinks, are genuine. She can almost feel it under her skin. Betty nods. She squeezes Jughead’s hand on her shoulder, and then pulls away to perch on the end of Veronica’s bed. It’s as much of a peace offering as she can give, right now. “You’re helping now,” she says, and Veronica puts her cat on the bed to sit next to her. “With Cheryl, and my dad, and—this. So—thank you, Veronica.”

Veronica leans hard into her, resting her head on Betty’s shoulder. Jughead folds his arms again, uncomfortably, and turns to inspect the posters on Veronica’s walls.

“Right,” says Veronica, after the silence has spun itself out. She sits up, and shakes her hair out of her eyes, all brisk brightness again. “You’ve _clearly_ been through quite the crucible today, Bettykins. And if you—either of you,” she adds, without looking at Jughead, “would care to catch me up on the situation, that would be helpful.”

Betty looks at Jughead. Jughead looks at the wall.

“What are we talking?” says Veronica briskly. “Kidnapping? False arrest? Did someone grab something they shouldn’t have? Do I need to cast a blood curse?”

“ _Veronica_ ,” says Jughead, almost a growl. “Do _not_ cast a blood curse on Sheriff Keller.”

“ _You_ look like you’re ready to light someone on fire, so don’t you dare try to control me.” Veronica flips her hair over her shoulder. “Just because it’s _your_ town, Serpent, doesn’t mean I’m _completely_ out of the running for punishing some truly reprehensible mortals. Besides— _nobody_ hurts Betty and gets away with it.”

Jughead doesn’t argue with that. He grinds his teeth, and looks back at the wall again, like he wants to stab patterns into it with a switchblade.

It takes a while for Betty to get it all out. The feel of the room when that Solomon woman had walked in, how her body had caught like tinder in an oil slick fire, dangerous and violent and stinking of pollution. How her dad had insisted she go. What Keller had asked. The several clicking moments that had made her put it together, the cross, the questions. _Is Jughead Jones a Satanist?_ Veronica doesn’t speak, though sometimes it looks like she wants to blurt something out. She winds her hand into Betty’s like Polly would, when Betty had nightmares, squeezing her fingers as the cat Pyewacket bumps his head into Betty’s opposite elbow. Jughead’s leaned back against the wall beside Veronica’s bedroom door, still in his jacket like he’s going to run any moment. Betty tells Veronica about the fire and about what she knows now, about her powers and her dreams, about Jason’s ghost and what Polly might have known. Not about everything—not the hallucinations—but—most of it.

When it’s done, Jughead’s hands are out of his pockets again, and he’s fished Razz out to put her on an armchair. Veronica eyes Razz, and then Jughead, but only says, “Well, it certainly sounds like Riverdale is much more interesting than the last time a Lodge was here.”

Betty blinks.

“Your parents left twenty years ago,” says Jughead, in a toneless voice. On the chair, Razz is nosing at a throw pillow, pushing it onto the floor. “It’s on you if you didn’t look into the situation before moving back.”

“It’s not like we had a choice, _Jones_ ,” Veronica snaps. “With Daddy under the Vatican, there are only so many places we can go. And _nobody_ from the Churches of Darkness would look for us here. Not with so many hunters around. The Blossoms have agreed to leave us alone, for now, so we’re just—think of us as political asylees.”

“Yeah,” says Jughead. “ _Asylees._ Figures that scorpions hide with the snakes.”

“Okay,” says Betty again. She feels like she’s babysitting again, little neighborhood kids that can’t go ten seconds without throwing mud at each other. “Can we just—stop sniping at each other? I get that you guys are like—I don’t know, different faiths or whatever—”

“It’s not just _faith_ ,” Jughead says, bristling. He points at Veronica. Razz slides down the throw pillow to the floor. “She’s sold her _soul_ to some— _demon_ from the hellpits, and _that’s_ where she gets her power. She gave up _everything_ she is for a quick power grab.”

Veronica bristles right back. “Better than _grubbing in the woods_ like some kind of incestuous backwater _goblin—_ ”

“At least I don’t _eat people_ ,” Jughead snaps, and Betty’s eyes get wide.

“What do you mean, eat people?”

“Satanic witches have a habit of _cannibalism_ ,” says Jughead, venomously. “It’s in their fucking _Bible_ —”

Veronica sniffs. “Please, only _archaic_ Churches still practice cannibalism—”

“So what the hell is the Feast of Feasts?”

“That’s a _Church of Night_ ceremony, specific to _them_ , that’s _not_ what we did in New York and we’re _not_ a part of that congregation, Jones—”

“So mortal children aren’t on the menu at Yule for the Church of Shadows, then?”

Veronica shifts uncomfortably. “That’s an ancient tradition that most people don’t practice anymore—”

“Nice try,” says Jughead. “ _You eat people._ ”

“Oh my _god_ , you guys,” says Betty. She stands, and steps between them, putting her back to Jughead to look at Veronica. At her feet, something sniffles at her now-bare ankle. It’s Razz, investigating her house slippers. “Look. For right now it’s—we’re dealing with the same stuff, okay? And we’re all in danger from the same people and—and _fighting_ like this doesn’t help answer any questions that we have. So can we just—can we call a truce? Please?”

Behind her, she hears Jughead scoff. She has the distinct feeling he’s pointing again. There’s a very distinct pointing tone Jughead gets that’s pretty unmistakable. “Only if _she_ swears to not try to pull Satan and her _church_ into the situation.”

“The Dark Lord would have _no_ interest in anything that’s going on here,” sniffs Veronica, looking insulted. “He doesn’t give a damn about pagan witches and people who have turned their backs on His word. And the Church of Shadows doesn’t care what you redneck pagans do. But _you_ —” she points back at Jughead. “ _You_ keep your hedgewitch patchwork _mockery_ out of _my_ casting space.”

Something in the room is rattling. She thinks it’s the big gong that Veronica has sitting on her dresser, an old-fashioned brass thing that has a wooden mallet settled just below it. Jughead says, “This is _my_ town, Lodge—”

Veronica’s hair is floating, wispy, like living shadow. It’s the first time Betty can remember such an overt display of magical power, and it makes her palms, already sore from cuts from her nails, sting with sweat and salt. “My family was _born_ here, same as yours, _snake_ —”

“ _STOP IT_ ,” Betty shouts, throwing out a hand, and on the dresser, the gong cracks into five perfect pieces. She’d meant to stop the thing from shaking, not break it. She hasn’t put so much power into something since she was first learning to lift things with her mind, and guilt pierces her sharp in the ribs. Both Veronica and Jughead shut up immediately, though, Veronica looking at her with big eyes like she’s just performed a miracle. Betty takes a breath, and says, “Stop it, _both_ of you. Jughead—Veronica won’t involve—” She wets her lips. “She won’t involve the Church of Shadows or—or any deity or— _Dark Lord_ —in the situation. And Veronica, Jughead won’t—” _What was the phrase?_ “— _contaminate your casting space._ And I think we can all agree that—that _eating_ people is completely off the table, forever, because—god. V. _Really_?”

Veronica shifts, embarrassed. “It hasn’t been done in decades.”

Decades is much different than centuries. Betty bites her tongue. She looks back at Jughead, who looks a bit pink with anger, and then to Veronica. “Are we agreed?”

Veronica huffs. “Fine,” she says. “But _only_ for you, B, would I work with a _pagan_.”

Betty still wonders where Veronica's loyalty comes from, because she's been in Riverdale less than a month, but that's good enough for her. "Jug?"

Jughead scoffs. “If she’s not going to eat anyone,” he says, “or make anyone her thrall, then I don’t care _what_ she does so long as she stays _away_ from mortals.”

“I’m going to _high school_ ,” says Veronica. “I have to, to keep undercover. And besides, what do you do with _Cheryl_? _She’s_ part of the Church of Night, _she_ eats people, you’d think—”

“Cheryl _eats people_?” says Betty, with disgust.

“The Blossoms wove their magic into the foundations of Riverdale,” says Jughead. He sounds uncomfortable about it. “They’re our first line of defense. I don’t like them, none of the Circle does, but they’re necessary—”

“It’s just hypocritical that you’re giving _her_ a free pass when I haven’t done anything and get nothing but satanophobic _nonsense_ —”

“ _Guys_ ,” says Betty, and Veronica’s mouth snaps shut. Betty bends to pick up Razz, who is trying to crawl into her slipper. Razz doesn’t jump; she settles back on her haunches, investigating Betty’s fingers about as thoroughly as a cat might, before settling with her nose tucked against the scabs and scars on Betty’s palm. Betty cups her other hand over Razz’s spines, and strokes her back, more to soothe herself than anything else. “We work _together_ on this. About—the hunters. And about Grundy. And about Jason. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” says Veronica, looking at Razz. She gives Jughead a wicked look that Betty _absolutely_ notices, but doesn’t have the energy to decipher right now. “Jones?”

Jughead says, “Agreed,” sounding grumbly. “So long as _she_ stays in line.”

“ _Thank_ you,” says Betty, and sits down on the end of Veronica’s bed again, settling Razz on her legs. The hedgehog snuffles at Betty’s shirt and jacket before scraping one paw at the interior pocket of Betty’s coat, kicking with her back legs until Betty cups a hand under her rear to help her tumble inside it. Jughead has a weird look on his face when she does it, like she’s dancing the macarena or something. “Jug, you never said anything about what Keller asked you, before Webster turned up. Did he—did you think that maybe he was—”

She can’t say it. _Kevin’s dad_ , a witch hunter? She’s known Sheriff Keller since she was a little girl; he’d always intimidated her, but he’d never seemed cruel or hateful. He’d always been supportive of Kevin, even when Kevin panicked at twelve about coming out to his mom and dad. They’d both figured that maybe Sheriff Keller would be angry about it, but Kyra Keller would be all right with it. It’d turned out to be the reverse; Sheriff Keller, staunchly Catholic, had been nothing but supportive of his son being gay, and Lieutenant Kyra Keller, the atheist, had been the one to blow up and tell Kevin he was confused. Kevin hasn’t been able to talk with his mother in almost four years, beyond stilted, careful conversations that usually involve nothing deeper than what’s on TV that night. She’s always appreciated Sheriff Keller for that, for doing what she couldn’t trust her own father to do. The idea of him _hunting and killing witches_ —witches like her, or Jughead, or Jason—is just—inconceivable.

But he’d still _asked_. Beyond anything else, he’d still asked: _If he’s done anything—strange—I want you to know that you’re safe, here._ He’d still brought that woman in, the arson inspector—though if she really was an arson inspector, Betty would eat her mother’s most expensive cardigan. They’d still come right out with it. _Is Jughead Jones a Satanist?_

If Sheriff Keller wasn’t a witch hunter, she thought, he at least knew of them. _He’d_ called that woman in. And _he’d_ asked if Jughead had done anything strange. She can’t trust him. Not anymore.

“He didn’t…ask if I was a witch,” says Jughead, after a moment. “Not in so many words. He just—asked a lot of questions.”

Betty fights the urge to go and hug him again. Jughead, she thinks, needs more hugs than he’ll admit. “Questions about what?”

Jughead, arms around himself, says, “The Twilight. My dad. The Serpents.” He hesitates. “Jason.”

“He thinks you have something to do with Jason?” says Veronica, apparently so shocked that she forgets to be snippy. “That’s absurd.”

“Yeah, well, you’re new,” Jughead snaps. “Not so absurd to some people.”

Betty gets off the bed, and comes to him, unable to help herself, resting her hand on his back and petting her thumb against the fabric of the jacket. Jughead’s arms get tighter around his chest, and he looks at the floor, the wall, clearly desperate to keep his expression hidden. “You _didn’t do this_ ,” she says, soft but fierce, and grips his far shoulder, her arm around his back. “You _didn’t_ , Jughead. You didn't kill Jason. I know that. _We_ know that.”

He looks at her through his bangs, darting, and then looks back at the floor.

“So, what.” Veronica pushes herself back to the pillows on her bed, crossing her legs at the ankles. Pyewacket spreads himself across her lap like a fluffy duvet. “They grabbed the first witch they could find and are trying to blame you for Jason Blossom’s death? Savages.”

“Maybe.” Jughead rubs his thumb to the end of his nose. “Or it’s just—simpler to kill two birds with one stone. They know there’s a witch around because of the Twilight, and they want to explain Jason’s death away as something _not_ magic-related.” His mouth twists. “Bonus points if they wind up killing me.”

“Well, yeah,” says Veronica. “He was stoned to death. That has witch hunter _all over it_.”

“So you’re just the convenient scapegoat,” says Betty, and digs her nails into the fabric of Jughead’s jacket. “God, Jug—if I hadn’t lit the Twilight on fire—”

He brushes it aside. “They’d still be coming after me. I’ve been on their radar a while. They just could never pin anything on me until now.” 

Betty knows that. Betty’s sort of always known that. Jughead is the odd man out at their school, in their neighborhood. Always the weird one. And she’s read more than enough Assata Shakur and listened to enough true crime podcasts like _In the Dark_ to know that small town cops tend not to look too hard or search too far, and even if they can, it’s easier not to if they have an easy target to pin it on. She rubs Jughead’s back again, unsure what to say. Things like this aren’t supposed to happen in Riverdale, she thinks. But then again, _nothing_ she thought she knew about Riverdale seems to be true. Why should this be any exception?

“The woman the Sheriff brought in,” says Veronica. “What’d you say her name was again?”

“Mariah,” says Betty. Her throat locks, and she has to swallow a few times before she can speak again. “Mariah Solomon.”

Veronica’s nose wrinkles. “The Virgin and the False God’s favorite king. Figures. Sounds like Order nonsense to me. Did your dad seem like he knew anything, Betty?”

Betty shakes her head. The cross around her neck hangs low under her shirt as she says, “No, I don’t think so. He seemed—surprised when she asked about Jug. And—I don’t know. I mean, he’s religious, but I don’t—no.”

“Well,” says Veronica. She pets Pyewacket, absently. In Betty’s pocket, Razz wiggles around until Betty cups a hand over her again. “You can both stay here tonight, I suppose. Oh, don’t look at me like that, Jones. You can’t be on the street, not if they called in big shots from the Order to interrogate our dearest B here.”

Jughead shakes his head. “I am _not_ —”

“If you want to go out there and put yourself at risk of a stoning, be my guest, but I have a feeling it’ll upset a few people.” She gives Betty a significant look, and then slides off the bed. “I’m going to go order food and make sure everything in the guest room is made up for you, Jones. Betty, you can stay in here with me.”

“Veronica—”

“It’s no trouble—and honestly, Betty, do you _want_ to go back home after what happened today?”

Not in the slightest, but Betty wets her lips anyway. “Seriously, I can—”

“Oh, don’t be silly, of course you’re staying here. Ooh! This means we can plan what to do at Cheryl’s this weekend. _And_ go over the list of names from the spell of past dealings so we can come up with a plan about Grundy.”

Jughead’s face twists, oddly. “ _Cheryl’s?_ ”

“God, I am _dying_ for a mimosa,” says Veronica. “B-R-B, kiddos, don’t do anything I wouldn’t!”

With that, she swans out of the room. Betty blows out air, and says, “Hurricane Veronica?”

Jughead snorts under his breath.

.

.

.

Betty messages her father using her email—borrowing Veronica’s computer to do it, and then logging out after so she can’t see any potential response—and then takes a shower. It gives her time and space to think, to plan. It’s maybe a tactical miscalculation, leaving Veronica and Jughead alone to start sniping at each other again, but she needs the space to process what she’s just done.

She’s _run away from her dad_. From the Sheriff. If Hal finds her, she’s never going to do anything ever again. No Vixens, no _Blue & Gold_, no student council, no dances, no internships, _nothing_. She can’t believe this is happening. That this is something she’s _done_. _My family is broken_ , she thinks, and her throat tightens as the water pressure in V’s shower drums hard into her cheeks and jaw. She’s been trying so _hard_ to keep it together in the wake of everything, but her dad took her to the _police_ to try and put her friend in jail. Or _worse_ , she thinks, if that woman really was a member of the Order of Innocents. _They could kill Jughead._ They could kill Veronica. They could kill _her._

She rubs her eyes under the water, and turns to wash the shampoo out of her hair.

She can’t afford to think about it like that, she thinks. Veronica and Jughead are in danger of being _murdered. She’s_ in danger of being murdered, just like Jason, stoned and thrown into the Sweetwater, a bullet in her head. She thinks of the ghost of Jason on the riverbank, the rot of him, flesh peeling away to show bone. She doesn’t _want_ that for herself. She wants—she doesn’t know what she wants. She wants the world to stop spinning for a minute or two. She wants to be able to _breathe_.

Of course, nothing since Jason had disappeared has gone right. None of it. Not her family, not school, not anything. She shouldn’t be expecting anything more.

When she emerges, in clothes that Veronica’s pulled from somewhere—Betty has no idea how Veronica has her size until Veronica claps her hand gleefully and says “I _knew_ my guess was right, I resized it for you with a spell”—Hermione Lodge has returned from her day job. The dark-eyed woman from Fred Andrews’ truck the night the Twilight burned down sits at the bar in the kitchen, a copy of the _Riverdale Register_ in her hands. She slaps it down.

“Your parents are quite good at their jobs,” she says to Betty without preamble.

Betty hasn’t looked at the article since she saw the title over the weekend. _TWILIGHT OF TERROR_ : _Fingers Pointed At RHS Student_ , screams the headline. Then, below, a second byline: _; “Unlikely To Be Accident,” Says Arson Investigator._ A few phrases have been highlighted with yellow marker. Betty picks the _Register_ up, and skims it. Jughead hasn’t been named, but it’s obvious from the framing— _a sophomore; used to work at the Twilight; has prior run-ins with law enforcement—_ who they’re talking about. She drops it back to the counter.

“I didn’t tell them anything,” she says. Hermione arches one perfect brow, the same way Veronica does.

“If you had, you wouldn’t be here, Betty Cooper,” she says. She tips her head. “My daughter likes you. She said she had a feeling about you having magic. I didn’t believe her.”

“Yeah,” says Betty. She feels, more than sees, Jughead come up behind her in the door into the kitchen. “That’s why you put a memory spell on me.”

Hermione’s lips tighten, just slightly. Her perfect makeup is jabbing needles under Betty’s nails. She clenches her hands into fists, waiting for Hermione to speak, and the bite of scabs breaking on her palms has Betty flinching.

“My husband was convicted of selling spells to mortals,” says Hermione abruptly. She uncrosses her legs, and stands, coming around to Betty’s side of the standing counter. “He bottled love potions, concoctions meant to murder. Truth spells. Spells that put mortals in thrall to each other. He risked the exposure of the whole coven for get rich quick schemes. When he was caught, he was excommunicated, his magic was sealed, and he was imprisoned under the Vatican so the Anti-Pope himself could keep an eye on him. I was _not_ going to let my daughter go down the same path. I misjudged you and thought you were a mortal, which I’m sorry for. But I don’t regret protecting my family. And it’s not my job to justify myself, as a mother, to a fifteen-year-old girl.”

Behind Betty, Jughead makes a noise like he’s snapped his teeth together. Betty searches Hermione’s face. Then she looses her fists, and says, “Fine.”

It’s not _apology accepted_. Betty isn’t going to trust her. But it makes sense, and honestly, there’s nothing to be done about it now. It’s happened. She just has to move forward. She turns back to Jughead. “Are we still going to the trailer park tonight?”

Jughead’s still barefoot. He’s taken his jacket off, though, and the plaid shirt is wrinkled and too-tight around his shoulders. He blinks at her. “You still want to go?”

“No point in not,” says Betty. Her throat prickles, and she swallows it down. “I want to know what’s going on. I’m sick of—not knowing things. I’m sick of not being told things about—about my family, about my _town_.” She meets Jughead’s gaze, and says, “I want to know. If I don’t know, then I can’t keep myself safe.”

Hermione says, “Difficult to try keeping yourself safe if you don’t even have a familiar.” Then, when Jughead glares at her, she adds, “Just making an observation.”

She is so _tired_ , Betty thinks, of people saying things she doesn’t understand. _I learned trigonometry and the US presidents, not—this._ “Why?” She rounds on Hermione. “What is it about familiars that—”

“Familiars are magical focuses,” says Jughead, before Hermione Lodge can speak. Betty snaps back around to him. She _wants_ , for a breathless stupid moment, to be angry at Jughead. Then, when she looks closer, she sees the anxiety in his bones. He’s just as over his head as she is, she thinks. “Whether they’re goblins—” he eyes Hermione, and Veronica, who’s come into the kitchen behind her mother, Pyewacket draped around the back of her neck like a scarf “—or—spirits—they act as protective entities. They can—sense things around them. They can sniff out demons or—warn you if something is dangerous.”

“You share your magic with them,” says Hermione. “In turn, they protect you and share their knowledge. It’s symbiotic.”

“Then I need that too,” says Betty. Her stomach churns. “I just—I need _information_ , Jug. You—you _all_ grew up in this world. I never knew what I was until—until _this week._ I grew up thinking I was—I was possessed or something. Don’t,” she adds, when Veronica looks stricken. “I just—I didn’t know anything. I _don’t_ know anything, and I _need_ to. What’s going on with me, with my parents. With—with this whole _stupid town_. And if Toni and Thomas can tell me that, or at least answer some of my questions, then—then I want to know. I _deserve_ to know.” She takes a breath. “I deserve to learn. Because if I learn how to—how to be a witch, then I can get Polly back. I can—fix whatever’s been done to her.”

Jughead watches her for a long time. He says, “We don’t know that Jason did anything to her.”

“My dad wouldn’t say she was sick unless something was wrong,” says Betty. “My parents wouldn’t keep me _away_ from her unless something was wrong. They wouldn’t have put her somewhere I can’t find and told me that she doesn’t want to see me if something weren’t _wrong._ And—and whatever it is, I want to be able to fix it.” She takes a breath. “So—so if meeting Toni and Thomas is the start to that, then I need to do it.”

Something touches her foot. Razz, scrambling around the floor. She perches on the top of Betty’s foot, and rests her forepaws to Betty’s ankle, her nose twitching in the air. Betty sweeps her hand down her skirt as she kneels down, picking Razz up to cup her between both hands. The hedgehog is _fussing_ over her, she realizes. She can’t hear her, not like Jughead apparently can, but there’s a softness to the way she noses at Betty’s fingers that reminds her of how a mother cat licks her kittens. Betty strokes her thumb down Razz’s spine, and says, “Thank you.”

Razz makes a little huffing noise, and licks the web of skin between Betty’s thumb and forefinger.

“Yeah,” says Jughead. He looks away, at the wall with the expensive modern art piece hanging off it. Then he looks back at her, at Razz in her hands. “You’re right. I’m not—I’m not a full member of the Circle. I can’t teach you. You should meet the Topazes.”

Veronica makes a noise that can only be called a hiss. “You’re assuming she _wants_ to be pagan.”

“ _I don’t know what I want_ ,” says Betty, as Jughead turns scarlet and opens his mouth to retort. “I need to _learn_ before I can know that. So thanks for your input, V, but I’m going with Jughead for now. When I want to learn more about—” her tongue trips. “About the Churches of Darkness, then I’ll ask you.”

Veronica mutters something under her breath that sounds distinctly like _porque es tu novio_ , which Betty ignores. She looks back to Jughead, and then offers Razz, careful to keep the hedgehog in both hands so she can’t possibly fall. Jughead cups his hands under hers, and accepts Razz without a word, slipping her back into his pocket.

“Okay,” he says. “We can go now if you want.”

Betty blinks. “It’s not even seven-thirty, the appointment—”

“Thomas will be at the Whyte Wyrm already,” says Jughead. “He lives far out in the woods, but he’ll have driven Toni into work tonight. She tends bar there, like I said. They won’t mind.”

 _Oh._ Betty’s guts go frosty. She swallows—her tongue has puffed up, for some reason—and then she steels herself, hands in fists. “Yeah,” she says. “Okay.”

When Jughead holds his hand out to her, she takes it without hesitation.


	16. The Serpent's Wicked Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Betty walks into the Serpents' nest. Sweet Pea has some shit to work out. Toni's just tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops the three day weekend made me over-compensate with how long I've been taking between chapters.
> 
> I should be working but instead this happened.
> 
> So far as I can tell, "muhmum" means "grandfather" in Passamaquoddy Maliseet. I'm assuming the Uktena people came from a similar area and similar linguistic background. 
> 
> How Riverdale treated the Uktena as a fucking plot gimmick makes my blood boil. Thus this chapter.
> 
> EDIT: In my head, Lavender Stirwell is played by Tantoo Cardinal.

Betty has never been to the Whyte Wyrm. It’s always been the sort of place, for her, that her parents would point at through the window when they drove past, saying, _That’s a place a girl could get herself killed._ It hadn’t been particularly subtle, but it’d worked. Betty has never been anywhere near the place, with its cluster of motorcycles and gang jackets, the tattered sign above the door and the embossed two-headed snake on the northern wall, facing the main road like a scream. _The Serpents nest here_ , it says, tongues flickering between both sets of fangs. _The Serpents nest here and we lay our eggs here and we wait, and only a fool would stick their hand in a snake’s den._

Jughead murmurs the transposition spell at the Lodges’ front door. It opens, instead, into a small room with a battered old desk and a safe inlaid into a wall. They’ve come out of a janitorial closet, she thinks; when Jughead shuts the door behind him, and opens it again to confirm the spell’s broken, a mop almost falls out on his head.

“Upstairs office,” he says, when Betty lifts an eyebrow. “Easier than coming in the front door—half the Serpents down there aren’t witches, they’d have no clue what to do.”

“Jughead,” says Betty, suddenly remembering. “This is—this is a _bar_.”

Jughead blinks at her. “…so?”

“So we’re _fifteen_ ,” Betty hisses. “Isn’t there going to be like—someone trying to keep us out of here, or—”

“Oh,” says Jughead, and he laughs, bitterly, shaking shakes his head a little. “Nobody here gives a shit about that, Betts. It’s the _Serpents._ They’re more concerned if you’re planning on putting a knife in their ribs.”

Betty, realizing she’s wearing a cardigan and hounds-tooth patterned mini-skirt, smooths her sweaty palms over the fabric. Very much not clothes to wear when in a biker bar. “Oh.”

Jughead hesitates. He tugs his jacket off, and holds it out to her. When Betty blinks, he says, awkwardly, “You—look like a PTA mom.”

“Hey,” says Betty. “I’m not a _PTA mom_.”

“Like the wet dream of a PTA mom,” Jughead amends, and laughs again, lighter this time, when Betty aims a kick at his shins.

“My _mom_ is in the PTA, you sick—”

“Just take the jacket, Betts—”

“You’re an _asshole_ ,” Betty says, and shoves her arms into the sleeves of the coat. It’s warm, still. There’s no air conditioning in the Whyte Wyrm, at least, not in this office; she’s going to be sweating through her clothes in five minutes. Still, she feels safer with it on, and Jughead—despite being…Jughead, the boy she’s known forever, he seems almost at ease in this place. Or, at least, cautiously familiar. “That was _gross_.”

He grins at her, all silly, and her heart hurts. “I’m not wrong, though.”

“Go to hell,” says Betty, but her lips twitch up anyway. They smile at each other for a second, somewhat slap-happy, before the memory of where they are comes back to him. The expression slides off his face like water off oil, and her heart hurts again, for a completely different reason.

“Betty,” says Jughead, and hesitates. “Look, I—there’s—something you should, um, know. About—me.”

Betty raises an eyebrow. “More than you’re a witch?”

“Uh—yeah.” He fidgets. In the jacket pocket, Razz unfurls from her ball. Betty wonders how Jughead can pay attention with Razz _constantly_ moving around, wonders if the hedgehog ever sleeps. _Aren’t hedgehogs nocturnal? Or diurnal?_ Or does hedgehog behavior even apply, when Razz isn’t _technically_ a hedgehog? “Look. My—dad. He…might be here.”

Something cold grips her by the throat. “Like—here at the bar?”

Jughead lifts one shoulder. He doesn’t look at her. “He’s—big into the Serpents. Spends most of his time here. So—if he sees you, I—I don’t know. I haven’t—told him that you’re—”

He putters out, clearly not knowing what else to say. Betty wrings her hands, for a moment—better than digging her nails into already aching palms—and then she reaches a hand out, the way he had at Veronica’s, careful to keep it palm down so he can’t see the scars. Jughead looks at her fingers, and then at her, and visibly swallows.

“I don’t care who your dad is,” she says. “Like—Jug, he could _run_ the Serpents and it wouldn’t matter to me. It’s not going to change the fact that you’re my friend. But—Jughead, you can _trust me._ You’re important to me. Okay? You don’t—you don’t have to be scared of telling me important things about you.” Her eyes burn and her arm has begun to ache when she says, “You’re one of my oldest friends. I don’t want you to be scared of me.”

Emotions chase each other across Jughead’s face, too fast for her to make out more than snippets. Fear, and then frustration, and then confusion, and then something else that makes the bottom of her stomach fall away, some burning look that’s gone as soon as she notices it. Jughead lifts a hand, and takes hers, and she’s not sure which of them threads their fingers together, but when Betty steps closer his thumb is pressing into the space between her first and second knuckles. She can’t remember the last time she and Jughead held hands, she thinks. Probably when they were little, before Reggie started teasing them. Elementary school, maybe. Betty hasn’t held a boy’s hand since. Jughead’s are warm, like the rest of him, and a little rough from the part-time construction work he does for Fred Andrews sometimes, but mostly just long fingers and a soft palm. She hasn’t paid attention to Jughead’s hands before, ever, but they’re actually nicely shaped, she thinks. They fit well with hers.

“Yeah,” says Jughead. He sounds husky. “Okay.”

“You can tell me things,” she says again. It feels—important, somehow. “I want you to tell me things. I want you to _trust me_.” She swallows. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he says again.

Betty searches his face, squeezes his fingers. Then, swallowing, she lets go. Jughead’s standing very close, still, when she says, “We should go downstairs.”

“Yeah,” he says. Jughead coughs. “Uh, just—stay by me.”

“Yeah,” says Betty. She hadn’t really planned another option.

Downstairs, the Whyte Wyrm stinks. It’s hard to discern exactly what about the smell is making her so sick—whether it’s spilled beer, cigarette smoke hanging in the air, unwashed man, the marijuana being puffed right into her face, or something else, something unclean—but it’s making her guts tighten, like she needs to run to the bathroom. Betty doesn’t grab Jughead’s hand again, though she wants to; she sticks close to his back as he slips through the crowd, even as men and women in Serpent coats say “hey kid” in quiet voices, like they _know_ him, like they have a history. _Jughead._ Jughead, the boy who sits in the back of the class and talks incessantly about Quentin Tarantino and Jack Kerouac, being _known_ to active gangsters. She can’t square that away in her head properly. One of them, a tall man with long greasy hair, gives her an elevator look that makes every hair on her body stand on end, but thankfully he doesn’t say anything.

“There,” says Jughead, mouth suddenly by her ear. “At the bar.”

The mysterious Toni Topaz can’t be a day older than Polly. She’s Black, Betty thinks—it’s hard to tell in the dim red lights of the Wyrm—with dyed hair and a netted tank top that shows off her lean, muscular arms. There’s a jacket slung over the chair behind the bar that clearly has the Serpent emblem on the back. Betty would know her for a snake anyway; there’s a sharp, clearly defined two-headed serpent tattooed onto her ribcage, visible in patches through the netting of her top. She can’t possibly be old enough to even go _into_ a bar, let alone work at one, Betty thinks. There’s a warm pool of _something_ in her stomach that Betty recognizes as attraction, and she tells herself, sternly, to _calm the hell down_. Even if her queerdar (as Kevin calls it) is pinging at eighty clicks a minute, she is _not_ in a space to think about it right now.

“Toni,” says Jughead, and stops at the edge of the bar. Toni, who’s in the middle of filling a few pint glasses with beer off a tap, blinks at him, and scowls. “Sorry we’re early.”

“Dammit, Jones,” says Toni. “I _literally_ just got done clearing it with Hog Eye that I’d take my break at eleven. What the _fuck_.” Her eyes jump to Betty, and her scowl deepens. “ _Jesus_ , Jughead, you brought your North Side Princess in here in _that_?”

Betty looks down at her top and skirt. Anger bristles in the back of her throat. Something about this girl makes her want to snap. Jughead puts a hand on her shoulder, as if he knows her temper’s skidding, and says, “We kind of didn’t have much choice, Topaz. Is there a space we can talk?”

“Jesus,” says Toni again. She gives Betty a top to toe look—one could be appreciation or disgust, Betty can’t tell—and then says, “Give me a minute. Go sit with Sweet Pea while I deal with the hog.”

Jughead’s face twists. He looks over Betty’s head to the corner, and then cuts his eyes back to Toni. “And have him mess up my face? No thanks.”

“It’s that or I walk,” says Toni. “At least if you’re with Sweet Pea I know you’re not getting into it with Tall Boy, _again_.”

Betty can’t help herself. “Jug,” she says, and Toni’s eyes snap right to her. “It’s fine.”

“You don’t know these people, Betty—”

“It’s _fine_ ,” says Betty again. She cuts her eyes to Toni. “We’ll wait with—Sweet Pea. It’ll be safer than waiting alone. Right?”

Toni gives her another long look, more considering this time. Then: “Well, at least the princess has some common sense,” she says. She looks at Jughead. “You’re giving me a headache, Jones. Don’t make me chuck you in the river again.”

It’s hard to make out in the light, but she thinks Jughead might be blushing. “I was five.”

“Yeah, and I can do it now when you’re fifteen.” She snaps her fingers, and points towards a back table with a group of boys in Serpent coats. “Get out of my face. I gotta go talk to Hog Eye.”

With that, Toni slides the pints of beer down the bar—there’s a roar of masculine voices in the corner, none that Betty recognizes—and vanishes into a back room. Jughead rubs fiercely at the end of his nose, scoffing under his breath. Betty, in spite of herself, finds the sleeve of his plaid shirt and grips it again. She needs something familiar, she thinks. And it’ll keep them from being separated.

“Are all of them like—” she hesitates. “What’s the naming thing?”

Jughead rubs a hand over his face, full stop. He says, “You pick a new name when you join the Serpents.”

“Like—” she lowers her voice. “The Circle? Or—”

“Either.” He grimaces. “Toni’s in both. So is Sweet Pea. Fangs is trying to get in—”

“Fangs?”

Jughead jerks his chin towards the back table. There are two boys clustered around it, one of them drinking what looks like a straight bottle of Jack. The other has a water bottle resting on the table beside him, but instead of drinking, he appears to be flickering a knife through his fingers. “Fangs,” he says. “The shorter one. He’s trying to get into the Serpents.” He hesitates. “He’s—not like us.”

Not a witch. A mortal, like Archie. Still: both those boys look like they could pick Jughead up and break him like a matchstick. Betty holds tighter to his sleeve, and takes a breath. _You’re braver than this_ , she tells herself. She can do this. She threatened to kill Cheryl Blossom in her own home. She caught Chuck Clayton’s confession on camera by almost drowning him in a Jacuzzi. (Her stomach hurts—she can’t _remember_ that, still, to this day—but this is _not_ the time to think about it.) She _can_ do this. “You think they’ll be okay?”

“ _Highly_ doubtful,” says Jughead. He sounds—cramped. Like he’s having stomach trouble. “Look, I really think we should just wait outside—”

“You’ve met them before?”

“At Circle meetings,” says Jughead. “Well, Sweet Pea anyway. He doesn’t like me. Fangs—lives a few rows over at the trailer park.”

He doesn’t expand on it. Betty puts her shoulders back, and says, “Well. We have to wait for Toni somewhere.”

“No, wait—Betty—”

The taller one, Sweet Pea, is the first to look up. Betty’s not sure what to make of the expression on his face. He stares at her without blinking, as if his brain can’t process the sight of a girl in a hounds-tooth skirt in the middle of the Whyte Wyrm. Then he sees Jughead coming up behind her, and his mouth twists into something nasty. “Jones,” he says, and across from him, the boy with the knife—Fangs—snaps his head up. “ _Wow_. You finally decide you want to slum it? Daddy must be proud. He know you’re here?”

“You’ve probably seen him more recently than me,” says Jughead. His hands are fists in his jeans pockets. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“I heard about your little spat.” Sweet Pea spits it out like venom. Betty realizes in that instant he has a two-headed serpent tattooed on his neck. It seems almost like it’s moving, but that, she thinks, must be a trick of the light. “Nice to know your mother’s blood’s true in you, Jonesy. Ditching us when things get bad, _very_ loyal.”

“Leave my mother out of this,” says Jughead, in a dark, dangerous voice. “Where’s FP?” 

“Out,” says Sweet Pea shortly. He looks back to Betty. The smaller one, Fangs, flickers the switchblade through his fingers again, somehow not cutting himself. “He had a shipment to pick up. Who’s the priss?”

“The _priss_ ,” Betty snaps, “can speak for _herself_ , thank you.”

Fangs bares his teeth in a grin, and starts to laugh. “Oooo, _Jones_. Did you bring a _North Sider_ down here? Hot.”

“Jesus,” says Sweet Pea. “You might be the precious _Serpent Prince_ , but I didn’t think even _you_ had the balls for that.”

 _Serpent Prince._ Betty bites her tongue on her questions. Jughead, next to her, has gone stiff. “I’m not interested in your bullshit today, Sweet Pea. We’re waiting for Toni.”

“Topaz still putting up with your shit?” Sweet Pea swings his legs out from under the table, and stands. He’s _massive_ , taller than Moose even; Betty didn’t think that was possible. “So we’re just South Side shit on your shoes until you need something from us, is that it?”

“I’m not here to argue with you,” says Jughead. In the pocket of her borrowed jacket, Betty can feel Razz quivering. “As soon as Toni’s on break, we’ll get out of here.”

“I don’t get why she puts up with your _bullshit_ ,” Sweet Pea says. “You’re not _shit_ , Jones.” He reaches out, and pushes Jughead once in the shoulder with two fingers, knocking him off balance. “So take your North Sider bitch—”

“ _Hey_ ,” Betty snaps, and steps between. She doesn’t think about it. She slides between Jughead and Sweet Pea, glaring up at this strange boy with all her force, and then puts her hands hard on his chest and shoves _him_ back. She maybe puts a little energy into it that she shouldn’t, a little force that comes right from the pool of power inside her without her permission, and Sweet Pea stumbles back hard enough to hit the table and knock his knees out from under him. The bottle of Jack shatters on the floor, the sound barely covered by the hard bass of Breaking Benjamin over the PA. “Back _off_.”

“Betty,” says Jughead, “Jesus,” and then he’s gripped her wrist hard in one hand. He might be trying to put her behind him, she doesn’t know, but she stands her ground. “We’re not here to _fight_ ,” he says, to both of them now. “We’ll go wait somewhere else.”

Sweet Pea’s eyes have narrowed. Betty’s not sure, in that second, if he’s going to push _her_ down. He slides off the table, bending one knee awkwardly—he whacked it against the chair, she thinks—and gives her a long, careful look before throwing a glance at Jughead.

“Huh,” he says after a moment.

Fangs is on his feet, knife in his hand. He’s not moving, though, not immediately. His eyes dart from Sweet Pea to Betty to Jughead in silence. The adults around them don’t seem to have noticed the shoving match in the corner; Betty shakes her hands out, feeling odd tingles in her skin from the magic, and then tucks her fingers into the pockets of her borrowed jacket.

“Call me a bitch again,” says Betty. “I dare you _._ ”

She stares at him, unblinking. Sweet Pea stares back. Jughead’s hand tightens around her wrist, but he doesn’t pull her away. Betty has a feeling that something is _happening_ here, some shift of power or some kind of odd Serpent dynamic she doesn’t understand, but she has a competitive streak. She is _not_ about to lose.

“You’re strong for a girl,” says Sweet Pea after a moment. There’s an odd tinge to it, like he’s trying to evaluate something. “Where’d you learn that?”

Betty wets her lips. “Guess it comes naturally.”

There’s a moment where, she thinks, it could explode into a fight. Then Sweet Pea looks down, putting weight on his knee carefully.

“You can sit,” he says, after a moment.

Fangs is the first one to blink. “What?”

“It’s fine,” says Sweet Pea. He looks at Betty again, and then to Jughead, mouth twisting up again like he’s seen something distasteful. “Just—sit down before Tall Boy comes to see what’s up.”

Jughead looks like someone’s thunked him over the head with a hammer. He opens his mouth, closes it again, opens it back up, but no words come out. Betty turns to him, gently tugging her wrist out of his grip, and then says, “Come on,” and pulls him towards the table. Fangs tucks the knife away as she sits down, but is clearly watching her with a confused expression, like he’s not _entirely_ sure what just happened but he knows something did. Betty’s not entirely sure either. Sweet Pea sits down on her right, stretching his leg out underneath the table.

“What’re you seeing Topaz for?” Sweet Pea aims it at her, not at Jughead. It’s about as good as she can get, she thinks. At least he’s not shoving him. “Need something done?”

“I have a few questions about the Serpents,” says Betty, carefully. Under the table, Jughead seizes her wrist again, and holds it in a warning grip. “Jughead said she could help.”

“Toni’s in the inner circle,” says Fangs. He spreads his hand out on the table, and flickers his knife back out to do a slow stabbing pattern between his fingers, like a Russian mobster in a TV show. Betty watches him do it with a churning stomach, wondering if the scar on the back of his hand is from bad timing or something worse. “She can definitely answer questions.”

“North Sider like you joining the _Serpents_?” Sweet Pea’s eyes burn. “You serious?”

Betty opens her mouth, and shuts it again. _You’re assuming she wants to be pagan_ , Veronica had said, and she’s—really not sure _what_ she wants to do. She’s pretty sure she can’t be part of the Circle _without_ being in the Serpents, and joining a gang—anxiety squeezes her ribs. She says, “I haven’t decided what I want to do.”

Sweet Pea looks at Fangs. Then, to Betty, he says, “Better us than the Ghoulies.”

“Damn fucking straight,” says Fangs, and starts speeding up with the knife. Betty watches with sick fascination. She can’t decide if it’s terrifying or not, but either way she can’t stop staring. “Ghoulies’ ain’t shit, princess.”

“My name is Betty,” says Betty shortly.

“ _Betty_ ,” says Sweet Pea, and snorts. He steals Fangs’s water bottle, and cracks the top. “Jesus. Fuckin’ white people are on _crack_.”

Fangs, laughing, speeds up with the knife. Betty rips her eyes off it, before she watches him cut his finger off or something. “How do you know Toni?”

“Same way the precious Prince here knows her,” says Sweet Pea. There’s a sea of _something_ under the words that she doesn’t understand. “We met her when we were kids.”

Betty steals a look at Jughead. He’s staring hard at the wall, pretending like he can’t hear them. Under the table, his hand has relaxed, but only slightly; she’s fairly certain she’s going to bruise after all this. She turns her hand palm up, and torques her hand to touch her fingers to his knuckles, just slightly. Jughead eyes her out of the corner of his eye, and then, without a word, slides his hand back into hers, squeezing hard enough to hurt. Betty doesn’t mention it. There’s sweat on his palm, and his fingers are shaking, just barely. From fear or anger, she can’t be certain. That same feeling of water pressure, her ears popping and her throat locking like she’s been tossed into deep water, comes back over her. Anger, she thinks. She squeezes back, and doesn’t let go.

“Who are the Ghoulies?” she says, after a moment. Sweet Pea leans back in his chair, and scoffs.

“Jesus, Jones, you’ve told her _jack shit_ , haven’t you?”

Jughead bristles. His hand tightens in hers. “It’s been a long week, _Sweet Pea._ ”

“It’s Tuesday,” says Fangs, cocking an eyebrow. “What have you been doing, Jones? Taking your pervy pics again?”

Deadpan, Jughead says, “No, Fangs, that’s _your_ shtick.”

Fangs snarls.

“Ghoulies are a rival gang,” says Sweet Pea shortly. He looks back to Betty. “Formed a few decades ago. All up and down the coast of Maine. They’re trying to get in here cause it’s so close to the border.” Then, without warning, he bangs his fist down onto the table, hard enough to make Betty jump. “But _we_ keep them the _fuck_ out of our fucking territory.”

“It’s all very Hatfields and McCoys,” says Jughead dryly, and ignores the look Sweet Pea sends him, like he’d like nothing more than to string Jughead up by his ankles and hang him from the statue of General Pickens in Pickens Park. “Ghoulies want hard drugs and arms in Riverdale. Serpents try to keep that out.”

Betty turns that over in her mind. All she’s ever heard about the Serpents is that they’re dangerous; that they’re drug smugglers, drunks, a biker gang that terrorizes the South Side. She says, “So—the Serpents aren’t heroin dealers?”

“ _Fuck_ no,” says Sweet Pea. “You know what the Serpent King would do if he found someone bringing snow into the South Side? You’d be out on your ass without a hand.”

Under the table, Jughead grips her fingers hard.

“Hey,” says a voice. It’s Toni. She’s pulled her Serpents coat on, wiping her palms on the fabric of her jeans. She cocks an eyebrow at the sight of Sweet Pea and Fangs. “You four seem cozy.”

“God forbid,” says Jughead, and slides out of his seat. “Where’s Thomas?”

“Back room with Lavender,” she says. Jughead’s lips press thin.

“Lavender is here?”

“She had to get groceries so _muhmum_ gave her a ride into town,” says Toni, and rolls her eyes. “For fuck’s sake, Jones. She might be a Founder, but she won’t bite you.”

Jughead looks doubtful.

“Lavender?” says Betty.

“Lavender Stirwell,” says Toni. She glares at Jughead. “One of the Founders of the Serpents.”

And likely a witch, Betty thinks, if she’s in the room for this conversation. Betty swallows. “Okay.”

Toni stops. She looks to Jughead, and then to Betty, before pulling them out of reach of Fangs and Sweet Pea. “Look,” she says. “My grandfather is not gonna be your _Indigenous guide_ to this whole thing, okay? He’s doing this as a favor, because _he_ —” she gestures at Jughead “—is gonna do _us_ a favor later on. That’s how the Serpents work. But he’s not a magic-8 ball and he’s not gonna do some spell over you to clear your magic away or whatever.”

“I didn’t think—”

“Ah,” says Toni, and points at her. “I’m not done, North Side.”

Betty snaps her mouth shut.

“That goes for my auntie Lavender too. They’re not just Founders, they’re Uktena elders and councilors. Even if you don’t know about us, you owe them respect. If I think for one second you’re going too far or you’re making either one of them uncomfortable by being dumbasses or dumbass white people or both, I’ll kick both your asses. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” says Betty.

Jughead just nods.

Toni looks at them both. Then, with a scoff, she yanks her sleeves further down over her wrists. “Fine,” she says. “Then follow me.”

Toni has to flip up a small portion of the bar to let them in behind the counter, jimmying open a door that looks as though it’s seen better days. The first room is filled almost entirely with alcohol. “Shut the door,” says Toni, and Jughead does without question, plunging them into darkness. There’s a soft hissing sound. As Betty’s eyes adjust, she sees Toni shifting boxes away from the back wall, where someone has painted the two headed Serpent in miniature. She touches her thumb to the top head, and says, “By skin and by scale and by blood, we are your children. Open to us.”

Air hisses out of Betty’s lungs. The snake on the wall is _moving,_ its tongue lashing in and out as if it’s real, and alive. It closes its jaws—both sets—and then slithers to the side, exposing a door that hadn’t been there a moment before. “Protection spells,” says Jughead, in her ear. He’s come up so close behind her she can just barely feel him breathe. “You have to be a Serpent or with one to pass.”

“And neither of you count, so you better thank me for being here,” says Toni, dryly. She wipes dust off her hand, and opens the door, stepping back. The room beyond is lit with warm yellow light; there’s a carpet spread across the floor that looks like its seen better days. “Inside.”

Betty looks back at Jughead, and then slips into the room.

It’s a small office, just like the one upstairs. The warm light is cast from a few standing lamps, one of which has had what looks like a flag draped over it; Betty doesn’t recognize the insignia on it. A group of chairs gather around a low coffee table that’s strewn with ash trays, playing cards, and—Betty’s stomach drops—a gun, just left out there on the table. There are pictures on the wall that date back to at least the forties, she thinks; they’re in black and white, at least. One of them is of Barnabas Blossom, the first mayor of Riverdale, standing with a group of Indigenous people. Betty can’t say that anyone in the photograph looks too happy. Toni shuts the door with a click, and then brushes by her, crossing the room to another door. She knocks, and says something in a language Betty doesn’t understand before slipping her head in. Jughead comes to stand by Betty.

“That’s Thomas,” he says, and points at one of the Indigenous men in the picture with Barnabas Blossom. He traces his fingers along the edge of the frame. “And that’s Lavender, there.”

Betty leans forward. She can’t make out much of Lavender’s face. The woman’s turned away from the camera. Still, she seems small. “They founded the Serpents?”

“Them and a few others,” says Jughead. “There were five Founders.”

“Three are alive now,” says a woman, and Betty turns. A woman who seems to be in her middle fifties, her long, mostly grey hair tied back in a braid, has slipped out of the back room. She says something to Toni in that same language—Uktena, Betty thinks; it must be—before giving Betty a considering look. “Myself included. Forsythe Pendleton Jones, the hell are you doing here?”

Jughead shifts, awkwardly. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

“My niece comes to me and says there’s a North Sider witch out of nowhere and you think I won’t be coming out of the woods to see what’s going on?” Lavender sucks her teeth. “You’re a fool, boy.”

“I _wanted_ to keep it fairly quiet,” says Jughead. Lavender audibly huffs.

“You and your father are the same type of fool.” She has sharp eyes, Betty thinks. Like laser beams. “You tell him about her yet?”

Jughead glares.

“Figures,” says Lavender. She says something that Betty can’t understand, and then abruptly, her attention snaps to Betty. She’s a small woman, Lavender Stirwell, but she has a fierce grip when she takes Betty’s face by the jaw and turns her, back and forth. Betty’s too shocked to move. “You tell your father by the end of tomorrow, boy, or I will. Serpent King needs to know if there are witches popping out of the earth up in the North Side.”

 _Serpent King._ And they’d called Jughead the Serpent Prince outside. Betty wets her lips. “Serpent King?”

“Leader of the Circle,” says Lavender shortly. She frowns at Jughead, and it’s the exact same look Toni had out in the bar. If Toni hadn’t called Lavender her auntie, that would have been enough to make Betty realize they were related. “You haven’t told him a thing about her, have you.”

“My dad isn’t a part of this,” Jughead snaps.

“Your father runs the Serpents,” says another voice. It’s an older man, this time; in his sixties, maybe, with warm dark eyes and a neatly trimmed beard. He has his hand on Toni’s back. “He should have been your first stop if you found a witch in a place she shouldn’t be.”

Betty bites her cheek hard enough to split. So much for being hyperbolic about FP’s position in the Serpents.

Lavender huffs again, thoughtfully. “What’s your name?”

“Betty,” says Betty. "Betty Cooper.”

“Cooper?” Lavender’s grey eyes widen. “Hal Cooper’s daughter?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Sorry to say, girl, but your dad’s a real bastard when he wants to be.” She releases Betty’s chin. “Met him once at a town hall. Nasty piece of work. Knew your mother back in the day, though. She seemed decent, ‘til she sold out and left the Serpents.”

Betty has no idea how to respond. "...my mom was in the Serpents?"

"Not the Circle, she's mortal, but—yeah," says Lavender. “You got Spellman blood in you, girl. That’s clear.”

“Spellman?” She blinks. “Like—witch blood?”

“Spellmans are a family,” says Lavender. She turns away to the table, picking up the gun and sliding it into the back of her jeans. There’s a serpent on the back of her jacket, too, but it’s older, not so uniform as the one on Toni’s. Some of its scales are colored a light purple. “Up Greendale way. They have magic spilling out the eyes, that family, and you’re just the same, for all you’re half-mortal. Miracle you lasted this long without blowing up your pretty suburbs, if you’ve really got no training like the boy said.”

Her tongues turn to salt, to tar. “How do you—”

“Auntie’s birthed a thousand witch babies,” says Toni. Her hair is dyed pink, Betty sees. In the warm light of the back office, it’s much easier to make out. “If she says you’re a Spellman, you’re a Spellman.”

Betty’s knees are full of water. She grips the edge of the nearest chair, digging in with her nails.

“Can half-mortals inherit from a grandparent?” says Jughead, quietly.

“No,” says Lavender. “The magic gets too thin. Has to be a parent.”

And neither of her parents are witches. She’s so sure of it. She’s _so sure of it_. Hal or Alice being a witch is completely inconceivable. _But I’m a half-witch_.

_One of them had an affair._

She can’t look at that right now. She packs it up in a box, and stows it away. _Keep it quiet,_ she thinks. _Keep calm._

“Half-mortal, half-Spellman.” This man must be Thomas, Betty thinks. He looks at Lavender. “You should have let her sit down, at least.”

“Like I have time,” says Lavender. She packs up the playing cards. “Now that I’ve seen her, I’ve got work to do. The Spellmans will need to know they’ve lost a daughter on our side of the river, hopefully _before_ the Blossoms get wind of it.” She gives Betty another look, and then says, “Can you drive?”

The question is so jarring Betty blinks. Her heartbeat is echoing over her words. She can barely hear herself talking. “Um, yeah. Don’t have a license yet, but I can drive stick and automatic.”

Lavender makes a thoughtful noise. “You fix cars too?”

“My dad—” _oh god, my dad_ , “—and I have fixed cars since I was a little kid.”

“Good,” says Lavender. She looks at Jughead. “When she’s got her head on straight, you bring her to the motor shop, boy.”

Jughead says, “Why?”

“How is that your business?” says Lavender, and then she leaves the room without a goodbye, shutting the door carefully behind her. Toni has perched on the edge of the desk, crossing her legs at the ankle, pink hair hanging forward over her shoulders. Betty puts her other hand on the back of the chair, and leans on it fully, trying to breathe. When a hand rests on her back, she knows without looking around that it’s Jughead. He’s just about vibrating with anxiety.

“Sit down,” says Thomas, softly.

Betty digs her nails deeper into the fabric of the old chair, and shakes her head. _Head up,_ she thinks. _Shoulders back. Nothing is wrong. Everything is perfect._ She can’t think about her parents right now. She locks the panic and confusion away, and straightens, shuffling the hem of her cardigan sleeve out from under the jean jacket to wipe the edge of her eyes. She hadn’t put on makeup after showering at Veronica’s, and it’s about the only thing going for right now. “No, I’m—I’m okay.” 

“Well, I’m sitting,” says Thomas, and comes around to sit in the chair opposite the one Betty’s leaning on. He stretches out his leg like Sweet Pea, and Betty realizes he has a knee brace on. Guilt pierces her between the ribs. She should have noticed. “Rain’s coming and it makes it hard to walk.”

Toni hovers by his chair, tugging at her sleeves. “You need aspirin?”

“Yeah.” Thomas catches Toni’s hand, kisses the back of it. “Knock when you come back in.”

Toni eyes Jughead and Betty, as if to say, _I warned you_ , and then flounces out of the back room after her aunt, slamming the door with considerably less gentleness.

“Lavender is right,” says Thomas to Jughead. “You should tell your father before he hears about it from someone else.”

Jughead waves a hand. “I’ll tell him tonight.”

“How long have you known?”

“A few days.” Jughead looks at Betty. “Since the Twilight.”

 _Ah_ , mouths Thomas, and leans back in his chair. “I thought that sounded like witchcraft. I figured it was Sweet Pea.”

Betty wets her lips. “I—I lost control.”

Thomas nods. “How long have you had abilities?”

“Since I started my period,” says Betty, and refuses to blush. Jughead coughs, though she’s not sure if he’s embarrassed or if it’s because of the cigarette smoke in here. “I was about twelve.”

“Ah,” Thomas says again, aloud this time. “Likely you had powers prior to that, but the onset of those years would likely have amplified them.”

Betty wrinkles her nose. “Like—like us having periods make us stronger?”

Thomas shakes his head. “Whether you have the organs necessary to carry a child doesn’t matter. Those who identify as women tend to have later onset of magical abilities, usually beginning in the twelfth year and completing the growth when they’re sixteen and take their first familiar. Boys start earlier, but generally have smaller magical stores to draw on.” The corner of his mouth quirks. “We have to work harder to build our abilities.”

Betty wets her lips. “Okay.”

“Some Satanists think it’s because the first witch on earth was a woman,” says Thomas. “Lilith, from the Bible. I don’t know if _I_ believe that, but women and girls tend to have a better amount of control and become more quickly attuned to their abilities. Boys lash out more frequently. Other genders each have their own process.” He gestures. “Please sit, if only just to save my neck from cracking.”

Betty waffles. Then, carefully, she sits, smoothing her skirt down and crossing her legs neatly at the ankle. Jughead remains standing right beside her chair, still just about coming out of his skin with nerves. She reaches up to him, touches his arm in a silent _it’s okay_ , and he looks at her and visibly relaxes. He’s not going to stop, she thinks, but he’s at least listening.

“I was taken to Sheriff Keller’s office today,” says Betty. “There was a woman there called Mariah Solomon. I think—I think she was a witch hunter.”

Thomas nods, slowly. “What did she look like?”

“Young.” Betty glances at Jughead. “Like, a little older than us maybe. Blonde. Her eyes were—I think they were blue. They were weird, like—it was like she didn’t really see the way normal people do. Not that she was blind, but more like—like she wasn’t feeling anything. You couldn’t see anything, in her eyes.”

Thomas puts a thumb to his jaw. He says, “You said she was at Keller’s stationhouse?”

“He said she was an arson investigator from Portland—”

“More likely a hunter from the Sisters of Quiet Mercy,” says Thomas, and sighs. “You’re lucky you were able to leave. If you were sixteen they would have been able to sense you more clearly. You likely wouldn’t have made it out alive.”

Her skin goes cold. Betty takes a breath, and lets it out again, slowly.

“I thought witch hunters couldn’t sense us until we join the Circle,” says Jughead.

“Most can’t.” Thomas considers. “If they’ve sent a professional investigator, she’s likely a vessel. Angels have much—much sharper senses than humans.”

“ _Angels_?” Betty says. Thomas grimaces.

“Not angels as portrayed in Christian texts. They call themselves that, but it’s unclear who they are or where they’ve come from, or if they’re some kind of spirit. Sometimes witch hunters will summon them and allow them to take hold of their bodies, to walk the earth in human form. Satanists believe they’re the Dark Lord’s siblings come to earth to hunt his children. Whether that’s true or not, I can’t say.”

Betty clutches at the pentacle around her neck. “She asked about Jughead.”

“They’re likely aware of Jughead’s relationship to FP, and suspect him.” Thomas waves that away. “We can keep him safe. The Blossoms have Riverdale High School warded against angelic intruders, and when he's off campus, we can shield him from their sight.”

She darts another look at Jughead. “Jug said that the Blossoms are—are in the fabric of Riverdale?”

Thomas grimaces again. “The Circle been here for centuries. The Blossoms are an old Satanic family that agreed to devote their magic to combating witch hunters here, in part to protect their coven in Greendale. There were—less cordial relations between Satanists and pagans back then.”

 _Less_ cordial? Betty thinks of Jughead and Veronica, sniping at each other. “Things are cordial now?”

“Nobody’s murdering each other anymore,” says Thomas, and shrugs. “At least, not frequently. An accord was made after the war to ensure that witches in Riverdale wouldn’t be killing each other off and doing the Order’s work for it.”

“So they get a free pass for being Satanists and murdering innocent mortals,” Jughead says, in what’s almost a snarl. “On top of stealing half the land and trying to take the Sweetwater.”

“Believe me,” says Thomas, in a very controlled voice. “I am more than aware of what the Blossom and Pickens families have done to Uktena land.”

Jughead colors. He snaps his mouth shut.

“Mr. Topaz,” says Betty carefully. She folds and refolds her hands in her lap. “Jughead’s been—trying to help me. But I have a lot of questions, about—about all of this.” She looks back at the pictures, just for a moment. “I—I grew up thinking that witches were stories and that—that the whole thing about witch hunters founding Riverdale was a _legend._ I didn’t think any of this was true. I don’t know what’s going on half the time, or where I fit in. I’ve had—ever since I got my powers I’ve had—these _dreams._ Hallucinations.” She swallows. “Lost—I’ve lost time. I don’t remember what happens, but I always _see_ things. I know I do. Is that—is that from magic, or—”

Thomas looks at her with renewed interest, as if she’s a particularly colorful bug on a corkboard. “Some witches do have the gift of seeing things in dreams,” he says. “It’s rare that a half-witch does, especially before gaining a familiar.”

She is _so sick of being a freak._ Betty clenches her hands. “So—can I stop them, or learn to control them, or—”

“Control isn’t possible,” he says. “But you can learn to keep the images. It’ll likely take a long time. You said you don’t remember what you see in the dreams?”

“I get—weird flashbacks.” She tips her head. “Like—aftershocks. Like sometimes I’ll see someone and I go blank for a second, and I just—have a sense that something happened. Like—my muscles will hurt, or there’ll be a strange taste in my mouth. I met a woman once at a fundraiser for the _Register_ and tasted champagne in my mouth for hours after. Stuff like that.”

Jughead’s staring at her. She can feel his eyes boring into the side of her skull.

“It’s not something that’s happened in the Circle in many years,” says Thomas. “Though I can’t say I’ve never heard of anyone doing it. I had an uncle who had similar abilities, though he was killed during the Second World War; I never had the chance to discuss them with him.” He strokes his short beard again. “I wonder if it might be valuable to seek out guidance from your Spellman relatives. Your magic comes from their family; they likely have genealogical histories and family grimoires that I won’t have access to.”

She shakes her head. “I—my parents would never let me anywhere _near_ Greendale—”

“It’s fine,” says Jughead. He looks at her. “I can go talk to them.”

“Jughead—”

“You need help, Betts,” he says, and touches the tips of his fingers to her back. He drops his hand again, almost immediately. “I—can’t teach you, but I can do this.”

Her head is spinning. There’s too much crammed inside, too many questions. “But—”

“Take Toni with you,” says Thomas, and Jughead nods. “Without your tattoo you’re not under the protection of the Circle. The Church of Night and the Circle have been at peace for decades now, but that doesn’t mean they’ll take an unexpected visit kindly, especially one regarding a situation like this.”

She can’t answer that. Not right now. “What—what about the rest of my magic?” It tastes funny on her tongue. “Jughead—loaned me his pentacle, to try and keep it under control, but it was—if I take it off it surges all over the place, I can barely control it since my sister disappeared—”

“Stress can impact your own ability to keep control,” says Thomas. He frowns. “Have you lost time since you put on the pentacle?”

Betty shakes her head.

“Which means the hallucinations are certainly to do with your magic,” he says. “And not something else. You’ll need a teacher.”

“Jughead said he couldn’t—”

“—and he’s right,” says Thomas. “A young witch teaching another young witch would be exceptionally dangerous.” He considers. “Joaquin will teach you.”

Jughead’s shoulders snap up to his ears. “Thomas—”

“You came to me to ask for help, boy,” says Thomas. “You’ll take my advice.”

“Who’s Joaquin?” says Betty, feeling lost.

“Joaquin de Santos,” says Jughead. “In the Circle. He’s Toni’s age.”

Betty blinks. “I thought Toni was our age.”

Thomas bursts out laughing. “Dear heart,” he says, “Toni is considerably older than she looks. She and Joaquin were born around the time Riverdale was founded.”

 _Well,_ she thinks. _It’s a good thing I’m sitting down._

“Joaquin owes me a favor,” says Thomas. “He’ll do this for me. And he’ll teach you—” he points to Betty “—how to keep control. He had similar problems as a young witch. Fairly destructive. He’s steadied out over the years.”

“Toni could do it,” says Jughead, and Thomas laughs again.

“You think Toni has the patience? She was barely able to teach you the basics without kicking you into the Sweetwater. Besides,” he adds. “Toni is busy doing some work for us. It’ll be a hard enough sell to get her to go to Greendale, even if it’s to babysit _you_ , little snake.”

Jughead jams the toe of his boot into the leg of Betty’s chair.

“Joaquin will find you in the next few days,” says Thomas. “I’ll tell him what he needs to do. Where are you living?”

“Um, honestly—at this point I’m not sure.” She frets with her nails, picking underneath, scraping at the beds. “I’m—staying with Veronica Lodge.”

Thomas leans back in his chair, and sucks his teeth. “I see,” he says. Then: “Likely Hermione Lodge will also have some things to teach you. She’s a powerful witch in her own right, for all her husband is a bastard.”

“She’s also a Satanist,” says Jughead.

“Half the Circle is made up of former Satanists,” says Thomas. “Besides—she’s been excommunicated. If she offers advice, then I wouldn’t dismiss it.”

Betty nods. She stands. At the door, someone finally knocks—Toni, back with the aspirin. She’d given them time, Betty realizes. Let them have space. Her heart aches. “Thank you, Mr. Topaz.”

“A favor for a favor,” says Thomas. He doesn’t look at Jughead. “It was very nice to meet you, little witch. Joaquin will keep me advised on how you progress.”

It’s a dismissal. Betty nods again, hands twisted, and looks at Jughead, who grips her by the elbow to steer her out the door.


	17. The Wickedest Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jughead opens up. Together, Betty and Jughead make a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Betty's Abusive Parents. Family-associated trauma/family dissolution trauma. FP's kind of not great in this either but he's also FP so...we know he's trying. Grundy's talked about again. People are continuously shitty to the Uktena. Also, Kevin is allergic to grammar rules.

Betty can’t sleep, when they get back to Veronica’s.

She’s tired. She’s perhaps more tired than she can ever remember being, even if it’s barely eight o’clock; she picks at the food that Veronica ordered, something from the Five Seasons restaurant that involves mango and chili and cilantro; she takes another shower, to get the smell of cigarettes and pot off her skin; and then, in a move that clearly disappoints Veronica, she crawls into the big queen bed in Veronica’s room and curls around a pillow, keeping her eyes firmly shut and her hand closed tight around the pentacle charm.

Veronica wants to talk about what happened, Betty thinks. Betty doesn’t have the brainpower. What is she supposed to say? _My mom was a Serpent? She cheated on my dad and that’s how I was born? My sister is only my half-sister? I have family the next town over I never knew about? I ran away from my dad because he’s trying to get one of my best friends thrown in jail? Jughead’s dad is the head of the Circle of the Snake?_

Though Veronica had probably already known that. She’d said something the very first time she’d _met_ Jughead. _My mom’s mentioned your dad a few times. When she talks about the old days._ Veronica knew. Of course Veronica knew. Everything is upended, and she doesn’t know what to do.

She watches the digital clock by Veronica’s bed tick through the minutes. Jughead had broken away from her immediately as soon as they’d come back to the Lodge penthouse; he hadn’t left the Pembrooke, but he’d just gone into the guest room that they’d set up for him to take a shower, and not really come out again. Even food hadn’t been able to tempt him. Betty wonders if he’s trying to reach his dad. FP Jones, who didn’t come for him when he was arrested. FP, who is the head of the pagan coven here in Riverdale. She tucks her knees closer to her chest, crossing her ankles under the blankets. When she unfolds her hands from their knots, the palms of her hands are so messy and bruised that they look like snake eggs. Patterned light and shadow, fresh wounds and old scars.

She shoves her hands back under the blankets as the door clicks open.

“Hi,” says a soft voice. It’s Hermione Lodge. She comes around the side of the bed, and sits on the edge of the mattress. “Veronica’s filled me in about your day.”

Betty looks at her through her lashes. Hermione Lodge is in a fancy silk robe, the kind that only really rich people wear. Betty’s family is comfortably middle class, sure, but her mom’s always scoffed at the image of rich women in pretty silks on the TV. _Waste of money_ , she’d say. And _that’s how you know they’re a trophy wife, they buy the stupidest things to sleep in_. Hermione’s is deep violet. She smells like expensive perfume.

“Oh,” says Betty. Her voice cracks, which is stupid, because she _hasn’t_ been crying. She’s too tired to cry. “Okay.”

Hermione folds her hands neatly in her lap, the very picture of a lady of the manor from some old film. “You can stay here as long as you need,” she says, softly. “I don’t know what’s going on with your dad, but I can talk to him. At least so you can be here while he cools down.”

Betty sits up, abruptly. “You’d tell him where I am?”

“He’s your father,” says Hermione. “He’s probably frantic.”

“If he knows where I am—”

“He can’t get in here if you don’t want him in here.” Hermione’s eyes are steady, her gaze unblinking. Something twitches beneath her curtain of hair. A slim, almost ferrety creature with pure white fur sticks its nose out, sniffing curiously at Betty. It slips out of sight again almost as quickly, but Betty’s sure, in that moment, that it’s Hermione’s familiar. “I promise you that, Betty. But he can’t not know where you are. If he says you’re a runaway, he could set the police after you, and after me and Veronica for hiding you. None of us want that.”

Her guts twist. “Oh.”

“I’m not asking you to go back to a place where you don’t feel safe,” says Hermione. To Betty’s surprise, she reaches out, and touches Betty’s cheek gently, cupping it like she’s a little girl. Her hand drops away almost as soon as it’s there, but the touch burns. “It’s just safest for all of us.”

Betty swallows. “Okay.”

“And the day that Hal Cooper can make _me_ scared hasn’t happened yet,” says Hermione after a moment. “He’s always been stubborn, your father. Even when we were in high school. Give him some time. He’ll cool down and realize he did something wrong.”

 _I don’t think so._ It rises to her lips like venom. She’s _never_ seen her father get angry the way he has the last few days. He’s always been the one out of her parents to quietly take her side, or support her. Hal was always the one who’d buy her and Polly things without them even having to ask; the one who held her hand so hard at church that her fingers would ache after; the one who promised her a car when she turned eighteen and would talk her mother down from some of her crazier rants. The bursts of temper, the pressure—all of that’s new. She’s not sure at all what he’ll do anymore, and that makes everything that much darker, that much more terrifying. “Okay,” she says, after a moment. “Maybe.”

Hermione smiles, just a little. She looks like Veronica when she smiles, Betty realizes. She stands, cups Betty’s cheek again just for a moment, and then says, “I’ll tell Veronica you have a headache so she lets you be. Would that help?”

“Yeah,” says Betty. Her eyes burn. “That’d help.”

“Talk when you’re ready,” she says. “No matter how pushy my girl gets. And rest well.”

Hermione closes the door so softly Betty doesn’t even hear the click. She remains sitting up in Veronica’s bed, hands hidden beneath the sheets, and watches the hanging fairy lights.

.

.

.

Jughead: can we talk?

FP: ill b back in rdale tmrw morn

FP: after school?

Jughead: it’s kind of urgent, dad.

FP: smth wrong??

Jughead: not exactly.

Jughead: just have something to tell you.

FP: ill call when im back

FP: might b l8

Jughead: okay, dad.

Jughead: i’ll be awake, probably.

FP: g2g

Jughead: be safe.

.

.

.

The next time Betty opens her eyes, the clock reads _3:02am_ , Veronica is asleep with Pyewacket between them, and out in the kitchen, someone is rummaging around for snacks.

Betty looks over her shoulder at Veronica. She’s completely asleep; her face mask is settled primly on her nose, her hands curled into loose claws against the fabric of the duvet. Pyewacket is not. Pyewacket looks at Betty for a long, strange moment before blinking very slowly; his tail begins to twitch. Clearly, she thinks, he’s not used to sharing a bed with someone other than Veronica. Betty puts a finger to her lips, and then slides carefully out from underneath the blankets.

It’s Jughead. Of course it was going to be Jughead. He’s poking around the refrigerator, hat lopsided on his damp hair and the back of his shirt clinging to his skin. His feet are bare. Betty shuts Veronica’s door just loud enough that he hears it, even down the hall, and then hisses at him, “Why are you awake?”

Jughead looks over his shoulder at her, and then finds a carton of what looks like more of the Laotian take out they’d had earlier, knocking the fridge door shut with one elbow as he aims for the microwave. “Why are you?”

“Couldn’t stay asleep.”

Jughead’s smile is biting. “Couldn’t _fall_ asleep.”

Betty perches on the bar stool by the center counter, folding her hands on the granite countertop. Jughead’s shoulders are hitching close to his ears again. He keeps his back to her, watching the timer tick down on the microwave.

“Jug,” says Betty, softly. “Why didn’t you tell me who your dad was?”

Jughead’s shoulders tighten up. He folds his arms across his chest, his back still to her, as he says, “Before today? I didn’t think it was relevant.”

“How could it _not_ be relevant?” She frowns. “Jughead, he _runs_ Riverdale’s coven. He’s the Serpent King, that’s—”

“That means more than just—him running the coven, Betty.” He still hasn’t looked at her, and it’s bothering her. “He’s the _Serpent_ King. He runs all of it, Serpents _and_ the Circle. He’s a criminal. He’s a _dealer_. So _sorry_ if me not wanting to air the shitshow that is my family made things hard for you or whatever, but—”

“Don’t be an asshole at me, Jughead Jones,” Betty snaps. “You _know_ that’s not what I meant.”

His mouth clicks shut. The microwave beeps. It takes him a full thirty seconds to get a fork and then the food, setting it carefully on the kitchen counter instead of carrying it off to the guest room. Betty watches him eat, mechanically shoving as much food as he can into his mouth, and wonders when his appetite got this big. If it coincided with him being homeless. She can remember him always being hungry even in _kindergarten_ , though. Maybe it’s just natural.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she says again. It’s even softer this time. It feels like the air around them is charged with something, not magic, exactly. Fear, maybe. It tastes like copper on her tongue. “In the office. You were _going_ to tell me. Weren’t you?”

Jughead shoves more food in his mouth. It’s only after he’s swallowed it that he finally looks up at her, from under heavy brows, mouth tight. _Nail on the head_ , she thinks, and refolds her hands on the countertop.

“I was—” He looks away from her, at the wall, at the rack of coffee mugs suspended in an artful pattern by an array of hooks probably so obscenely expensive Betty could redecorate her room for the same cost. His throat works again. “I wanted to.”

“Then why didn’t you?” she says, and this time he looks at her, eyes almost grey with something beyond sadness.

“Because I’m ashamed,” he says. It cracks away from him like frost. “I—Betty, my dad runs the Serpents. And it might be a front, to protect the Circle, but—but it’s also _not_. Every—every ounce of pot or pill of ecstasy that shows up in this stupid town is because of my dad. Serpents might not deal hard drugs or in guns, but they do basically _everything_ else. I didn’t want anyone to know. Especially not you.”

Betty blinks. “Why not me?”

“Because you’re—” He waves his fork, not looking at her again. “Your family might be fucked up, Betts, but your dad isn’t going around with a gun collecting protection money from businesses on the South Side every month. It’s not the _same_.”

“Jughead,” she says, and slides off the bar stool to come around the counter, turn his face to her with her fingers on his jaw. He lowers his fork, staring at her. “None of that impacts _you_. You are _not_ your dad. You have _nothing_ to be ashamed of.”

Jughead’s lips part. Something in his face softens, turns almost frightened. Vulnerability sets in around his mouth.

“And Jug,” says Betty. She rests her hand to his shoulder, still looking at him. “We share a secret now, a big one. That means we need to trust each other, have each other’s backs. So—I’m on your side. I’m _always_ going to be on your side. Just—please trust me too?”

He doesn’t say anything. Jughead simply watches her, for a long time, before pressing his lips together. The nod she gets is so small she thinks, for a second, she’s imagined it. Then— “Okay,” he says, voice small. He takes a breath, lets it out. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she says. When she hugs him this time, his arms come down around her immediately, tight around her shoulders, fingers pressing into her skin beside the strap of her borrowed tank top. Jughead rests his nose and mouth to her hair, just above her ear, and lets out a shivering breath. Betty curls her hands up his back, pressing her palms to his shoulder blades, and holds on. His heart is thundering under her palm.

“I can’t do this alone, Juggie,” she says, into his shoulder. Jughead holds on tighter, lungs stuttering. “I don’t—I don’t know what to do. About my dad. And my mom’s still down in Portland, and—and if Lavender’s right then my dad isn’t my _dad_ , and—and I always thought that I could keep my family together, but I don’t know if I can _fix_ this, not after—after Polly, and now this, and I just—”

“Hey.” He lets her go, looks at her. Then, quietly, he says, “I’m on your side here. Okay? If you need help, you only have to ask.”

She hiccups, and her vision blurs out. She _hates_ crying. Betty wipes her eyes with the back of her wrist. “Okay.”

“And parents are _crazy_.” He shakes his sleeve forward over his hand, and sweeps it very gently over her cheek to clear away the tear tracks. “All parents are crazy. That doesn’t make _you_ crazy.”

“My dad isn’t even my _dad_ ,” she says. Tears bubble up and over again. Betty swallows hard. “If—if I’m a Spellman, then my mom had an affair. And—and we broke over Polly, my family’s _broken_ , and if this turns out to be true then I don’t think it can be fixed. I don’t—I don’t know what to do, Jug.”

Jughead very carefully sweeps his sleeve over her cheek again. Quietly, he says, “If it helps, having a broken family isn’t completely miserable.”

Betty chokes. She wrinkles her nose at him. “Jughead.”

“It was a joke.” He takes a breath. “Look. This—I don’t know. But—I’ve met your family. Remember? And—and out of all of them, I can’t see anyone better to handle what’s going on than you. Regardless of what your mom says about—who your father is. _You_ are the strong one in the Cooper family. And you’re not going to lose them because of this. Even if you do, it won’t be your fault. Because people would be _stupid_ to leave you.”

Her throat closes up. Betty swallows hard, trying to work past the knot. “ _Jug_.”

“Just saying,” he says, awkwardly. He’s not looking at her anymore. “Just—you’re stronger than this crap. Okay? You’re stronger than the white noise. You can get through this.”

Betty nods. She can’t speak. Even if she could, she has no idea what to say. She doesn’t think anyone’s had such unshakable faith in her before, and it’s making her chest ache. She hugs him again, hiding her face in his shoulder, and Jughead awkwardly pats the back of her shoulder.

They stand there, in silence, for a long time.

.

.

.

ladypoirot: Hey, it’s Betty. I saw your messages at the PonyTailB account.

ladypoirot: I made a new UN so my dad can’t find this acct.

ladypoirot: I’m okay, Kev

ladypoirot: My dad has a tracker on my phone so I turned it off last night and took the battery out.

ladypoirot: *Please* don’t tell your dad you got in touch with me.

killerqueenkev: omg no ofc

killerqueenkev: like i know im a blabbermouth but *ofc* not i wont i promise

killerqueenkev: where are you???

killerqueenkev: wtf happened last night???

killerqueenkev: my dad said you ran out of the station and ive been awake all night wondering if you were dead in a ditch

ladypoirot: I’m sorry I scared you, I didn’t mean to.

killerqueenkev: im just glad youre okay

ladypoirot: They were trying to railroad me into saying Jughead did something.

ladypoirot: And I wouldn’t and they got weird.

ladypoirot: And like

ladypoirot: They were acting like me being mad was me being irrational??

ladypoirot: My dad’s been a nightmare since all this started and I know I scared him but you’d think that me being alive was a GOOD THING and not something to be punished for??

ladypoirot: Apparently Melody told your dad that Jughead and Veronica got into a fight at the Twilight and they think it’s because Jug’s jealous that Veronica and I are friends??? And he burned down the Twilight because of that???

ladypoirot: They showed me his private record, Kev

ladypoirot: Like I knew everything in it but like

ladypoirot: That’s SO BEYOND ILLEGAL

ladypoirot: They tried to make it out like Jughead’s threatening me into lying and all this other stuff and I couldn’t stand it so I got up and left

ladypoirot: And I have no idea what my dad will do so I didn’t go home

ladypoirot: He’s been so weird lately, he’s like…put a tracker on my phone and I’m on total lockdown and it’s like what he did with Polly before she disappeared but also different?? Because like. Nothing I’ve done is WRONG imo?? I went to get a friend out of jail??

ladypoirot: I don’t know I’m just tired

killerqueenkev: holy shit

killerqueenkev: honey why didn’t you say he put a tracker on you???

killerqueenkev: not even MY dad does that and hes the SHERIFF

ladypoirot: I don’t know.

ladypoirot: There’s been a lot going on lately.

killerqueenkev: where did you stay last night???

killerqueenkev: do you need somewhere to stay??

killerqueenkev: i can ask midge?? i kno her family has a spare room

ladypoirot: Your on/off hookup's girlfriend? That seems like a disaster waiting to happen.

killerqueenkev: bbg this situation is not a moment for shame or thoughts about moose’s dick

killerqueenkev: please god tell me you didn’t stay out all night or something

killerqueenkev: this might be the north side but weirdos still come out at night

killerqueenkev: wait r u with jughead??

ladypoirot: 💗💗💗💗💗

ladypoirot: I’m somewhere safe.

ladypoirot: Jughead’s here, yeah.

killerqueenkev: thank god

killerqueenkev: like i mean im sure thats your dads worst nightmare cause he wants you to be a virgin until marriage but like

killerqueenkev: jughead has street smart shit going on

killerqueenkev: and ive known since like fourth grade that hed never let ANYONE get at u, b

ladypoirot: ??? What happened in fourth grade?

ladypoirot: and oh my GOD me and Jughead are NOT TOGETHER will you STAHP

killerqueenkev: omg did he not tell you

killerqueenkev: (and yeah right i’ll believe it when i see it)

killerqueenkev: u remember in like recess where he and reggie and moose got into that massive fight and he got suspended for like a week

killerqueenkev: reggie was talkin about putting a garter snake in your lunchbox

killerqueenkev: & jughead heard him and shoved him off the monkey bars

killerqueenkev: and like

killerqueenkev: reggie and moose beat the tar out of him

killerqueenkev: hed never let anyone hurt you or do something to you if he can stop it and ive known that for years

killerqueenkev: like i said

killerqueenkev: hes nicer to you than he is to other people

ladypoirot: Oh.

ladypoirot: I never knew about that.

killerqueenkev: ofc not hed kill me if he knew i told you about that

killerqueenkev: but c’est la fuckin vie ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

killerqueenkev: anyway keepin you safe is like the one thing hes good for other than scowling and yelling about tarantino

ladypoirot: Jughead says he yells about Tarantino cause he can’t believe someone so sexist gets traction in Hollywood, even if he has talent.

killerqueenkev: omfg

killerqueenkev: tell him to yeet himself off a cliff

ladypoirot: He says yeet isn’t a word.

ladypoirot: Don’t worry, I threw something at him 💗

killerqueenkev: this is why youre my best girl betty c

ladypoirot: 💗💗💗

ladypoirot: I gotta get ready for school.

ladypoirot: But I’m okay and safe, I promise.

ladypoirot: I’m really sorry you keep getting pulled into my family drama.

killerqueenkev: can i be honest a sec

ladypoirot: ??? of course

killerqueenkev: idk lately its been like

killerqueenkev: how to say this

killerqueenkev: im really glad youre telling me this stuff now

killerqueenkev: idk i know this week has been super shitty but 

killerqueenkev: it felt like u never wanted me to talk about stuff that was like

killerqueenkev: beyond simple shit

killerqueenkev: i guess

killerqueenkev: and like

killerqueenkev: i wanted to be the kind of friend you wanted and you seemed to want someone who wasnt taking up your energy or something

killerqueenkev: idk

killerqueenkev: but im happy youre telling me stuff now

killerqueenkev: even if its like

killerqueenkev: all a nightmare

killerqueenkev: idk if that makes sense

killerqueenkev: but like

killerqueenkev: idc about getting pulled into family drama

killerqueenkev: youre my best girl

killerqueenkev: and im happy youre letting me help

killerqueenkev: i guess

ladypoirot: 💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗

ladypoirot: And you’re my one and only Kevin fucking Keller.

killerqueenkev: /gasps

killerqueenkev: betty cooper SWEARS now?

killerqueenkev: jughead IS rubbing off on you

killerqueenkev: (thats what she said)

ladypoirot: Shush.

ladypoirot: (S T O P;)

ladypoirot: I have to get my stuff.

ladypoirot: I’ll see you in homeroom 💗

killerqueenkev: u bet 💗

.

.

.

Betty doesn’t have the energy to go back into Veronica’s room and risk waking her, and it’s clear Jughead’s not going to sleep, so they borrow Veronica’s Netflix account on the widescreen TV in the family room, putting on a stupid horror film that Jughead can critique into the dawn hours. Betty dozes through it, mostly, her head on his shoulder and a blanket tucked over her legs. Midway through the film, she blinks her eyes open to realize that Razz has settled in her lap, curled up into a tiny, spiky ball.

It’s Wednesday—no Vixens practice on Wednesdays—which means they can sleep until seven, not five, and Betty takes full advantage. By the time she fully rouses to check her Tweeter, there’s the scent of fresh-brewed espresso hanging in the air. Betty pokes her nose into the kitchen to find what looks like an entire banquet of breakfast foods laid out on the counter, everything from French toast to chilaquiles. Veronica, already in something that looks more expensive than Betty’s house, claps her hands happily.

“There you are!” She gestures, broadly, at the food. “We went to Pop’s this morning! And Mami made chilaquiles, so that’s there too. We weren’t sure what you two wanted, but considering Jughead’s here, we figured more was better.”

“You figured right,” says Betty, trying not to smile. She takes one of the takeaway cups of coffee, curling her fingers around it. “The chilaquiles smell really good, Mrs. Lodge.”

“Hermione’s fine,” says Hermione, and waves a hand. “Where’s your friend?”

“Bathroom.” She hesitates, and takes a few pieces of toast and some of the chilaquiles. It seems rude to not take something that Hermione made by hand, even if she’s never had chilaquiles before. She hadn’t lied, though. It smells amazing. “He was talking about transposing me back to my room so I can get a change of clothes.”

“Nonsense, I can just transfigure some of mine.” Veronica waves a hand again. “Besides, if your dad’s home, you might not get out of your house again.”

Betty gnaws the inside of her lip.

“I’m calling him this morning,” says Hermione, softly. “I’ve already checked with Fred. He’ll meet me at work to talk about it. Okay? You don’t have to worry.”

“Okay,” says Betty. Not like being told not to worry _helps_ anything. She barely knows Veronica’s mom, and yeah, Hermione’s being nice and everything, but this is the same woman who took her memories away only a week ago. To protect Veronica, but still. “I’m—sorry I’m putting you in this position, Mrs.—Hermione.”

“Honestly, it could be much worse.” Hermione shrugs. “Have you thought about calling your mother?”

“No.” She folds her arms over her stomach. “I—I hadn’t, actually.”

“You might want to. At least to let her know what’s going on.”

“She’ll probably just be angry with me.”

“You never know,” says Hermione. Then: “I should call her and explain the situation anyway. It might be better if it comes from me.”

“No offense, but—my parents kind of hate you.”

Hermione shrugs again. “They’ve always hated me.”

Betty’s stomach lurches. Anything, she thinks, to stop talking about this. “Yeah, um. Okay. I’ll—I’ll get you her number.”

“Just write it on the notepad by the door,” says Hermione, and goes to dish herself some chilaquiles. “Good morning, Jughead.”

Jughead’s materialized behind her, Razz in one hand. He says, “Good morning,” in a very wary way, watching Hermione like she’s about to attack him with the serving spoon. Veronica seizes Betty’s hand, and pulls her sideways.

“Come on. You need to get dressed.”

Betty half expects her dad to be sitting on the front steps of the school. He’s not there, though. She doesn’t get called to the office; she doesn’t see him in the halls. She looks out the window when they’re in AP Bio, and there’s no sign of his car in the lot. She keeps her phone off, though, just in case.

Her habit of being at least a week ahead on all her homework assignments has served her well. Betty turns things in like everything is normal, heartbeat ringing high and terrified in her ears. Even though none of her teachers seem to notice anything different about her, even though Weatherbee hasn’t called her into his office to talk about her _running away_ , the fear won’t go away. It’s only after lunch and her dad still hasn’t shown up that she starts to relax, starts to think about other things.

The computers in the _Blue & Gold _office have finally been upgraded, and connected to the internet. Betty and Jughead drag two chairs over to one desk, and begin to go through the list she and Veronica had created through the spell of past dealings. It’s not long, only thirteen names, but the number of boys, the ages listed beside them, makes her skin creep with hives. Four boys from Centreville High, three from Baxter—she recognizes a few of _those_ names, and her guts clench—three from Seaside, and then, here— _Jason Blossom, 16; Benjamin Button, 14; Archibald Andrews, 15._ Razz is asleep in one of Betty’s sweaters, curled up on the top of the desk like a kitten might. It’s about the only nice thing to happen today.

“Do you think Jason knew she was a monster?” says Betty, softly, as she hunts through Ben Button’s Facebook page. He only has a few dozen friends, but his privacy settings are all on public; there’s a lot of posts that barely have any likes. The only person who consistently responds to him is Dilton Doiley, which surprises her. She hadn’t known Ben and Dilton were friends. “Or do you think she preyed on him too?”

“I don’t know,” says Jughead. He’s laced his fingers together, hiding his mouth, watching her scroll through the posts. “Maybe.”

“I mean, he was—he was dating my sister. It must have been before.”

“I hope so,” says Jughead, and her stomach drops. Betty turns back to the screen.

“Me too.”

“Archie asked me, you know,” says Jughead. “If you were going to tell his dad. He said you said something, at the station.”

“Yeah,” says Betty. She lets out a breath. “Like—I don’t know. Archie asked me to keep it a secret, but—but this woman is _evil_. Like—absolutely, without question, evil. And a predator. And I don’t want him to get hurt.”

Jughead nods.

“You said you had an idea of what we could do,” she says. “Yesterday.”

“Oh, right.” He hesitates. Then he reaches out to the door, twists his hand, and the thing shuts on its own accord. Betty stares at him, at his hand, at the door, before shaking the shock out of her system. _This is normal now_ , she tells herself. _This is what witches do._ “I—don’t know if it’ll work, but—yeah, I had a thought.”

Betty props her chin in one hand, and looks at him.

“I was—looking at my parents’ grimoires,” he says. “That’s like, a family spellbook. My mom was part of the Church of Night, over in Greendale, before she decided to leave, so hers is pretty old, but my dad’s is older, it was passed down from the last family to be Serpent Kings before us.”

“There was a family before the Joneses?”

“Yeah. Thomas’s family, actually.” He looks uncomfortable, rubbing his palms dry on his knees. “Honestly Thomas and Lavender and Toni have way more rights to the title of Serpent King than anyone else in the Circle, but Thomas’s dad—there was a whole fight between pagans and the Uktena in the Circle of the Snake, and my grandfather—won. I guess.”

“So like—he took over the Circle?”

“FP Jones the First,” says Jughead, darkly. “It’s—there are _reasons_ I don’t spend time with the Circle, Betty. I don’t want to be part of that cycle. I’m—I don’t want to run a gang, or—be Serpent King, or whatever. I just—I like being alone, and away from it all.”

Betty reaches out, and squeezes his knee. “You’re not alone, though.”

Jughead brushes hair out of his eyes, rubs at his nose. “You’re different,” he says, half in a mumble. He clears his throat, and then adds, “Besides, could you see me running the Circle? It’d be a disaster. It’s better if I stay away.”

“Is that why you’re not living with your dad?”

He flinches. Jughead inhales, and holds it. “I’m—supposed to join the Circle formally on—my eighteenth birthday,” he says. “As—as my dad’s heir. And that means I have to—give up—a lot. But—stuff has been going down this year, so—so he suggested that I drop out of mortal school and—and start taking more Circle duties early. So.”

Something vicious closes its fangs around her throat. “ _Drop out of school?_ Juggie, you _can’t_ , what about—”

“I told him to go to hell,” says Jughead. He swallows again. “I’m graduating. _He’s_ the one who fought for me to go to a mortal school in the first place, I’m finishing what I started. He’s just—” He waves a hand. “There’s a lot going on.”

Betty rests her hand on his back, and doesn’t move it away.

“Anyway.” He clears his throat. She can feel it, reverberating back through her palm. “I was looking through their grimoires, and there’s actually a few different things we could try. I just—wasn’t sure which one you might want to do.”

Betty frowns. “What are the options?”

“Well—” He ticks them off on his fingers. “My mom’s grimoire had a potion that basically forces someone to tell the truth, no matter what they’re asked. It’d mean sneaking it into her food, which’d be tricky, but I think we could do it, especially with the transposition spell.”

“And then, what, record it and play it back to Archie so he knows she’s manipulating him?”

“That or we just—play it for the school,” says Jughead, in a quiet voice. He doesn’t look at her. “Or publish the transcript in the _Blue & Gold._”

Betty whistles, long and low. “Weatherbee would flip. And Archie would never speak to us again.”

“Yeah.”

But getting the truth from Grundy’s own mouth…she makes a mental note. “What else?”

“We could curse her,” says Jughead. “We’d need to find out her worst fear. But—we could hex her with it. That takes less time, and all we’d need is to know her worst fear and then get a picture of her somehow. That’d be in the yearbook.”

“Why would that do anything other than keep her home for a day?”

“We could modify the curse to—I don’t know. Whenever she sees Archie. Or whenever she—” Jughead’s lips twist. “Whenever she thinks about molesting someone. That’s not hard. It’d just take a little time to change the wording of the spell.”

“Oh.” She wets her lips. “So—so what would it do, like—would she turn into a toad or something? Would it—” Hotness, sweetness, beats through her lungs. “Would it hurt her?”

Jughead eyes her for a long, careful moment. “Neither of those things are out of the question,” he says. His voice is very soft. “Is that what you want to do?”

Air rushes in her ears. “What?”

“Do you want to kill Grundy?” he says, like this is not completely _fucking_ insane, like it’s a simple question and not something almost completely abhorrent. Betty opens her mouth, and closes it again. She thinks of Archie in the hallway, of the hold that _that woman_ has on one of her best friends. She thinks of the list of boys’ names, the people that Grundy—a teacher, someone who’s supposed to be safe—has hurt, probably damaged for life. She thinks of the hate inside her, the rage. She swallows with a suddenly dry mouth, and clenches her hands around the edges of her notebook.

“I don’t know,” she says, just as quietly. “But jail doesn’t work. Everyone will think _Archie_ started it. That these boys—” she taps the list “—started it. She’ll get off easy. And I don’t want that. I want to help Archie. I want to expose her. And I want her to _hurt_.”

Jughead tips his head, and says, “Okay.”

Betty smooths flyaways down to her head. Her fingers are shaking.

“Okay,” she says, after a moment. She wets her lips. “What about this?”

She lays out her plan in careful strokes, keeping her voice quiet and her eye on the clock. Jughead listens, elbows on his knees, eyes half closed like he’s dozing off. He’s alert, though, and fixed on her face, and when Betty’s done, he rubs a thumb along his nose.

“The timing’s complicated,” he says, after a moment. “It’ll be tricky.”

Betty raises her eyebrows. “Not if we get Veronica to help.”

Jughead scowls. “Betty—”

“She wants to help Archie, too,” she says. She taps the notebook. “We wouldn’t have this without her. She’s not a bad person, Jughead.”

“I will admit that she’s been—okay.” He’s still scowling, though. “If we have to get help from her, that’s—fine. Whatever. But before we do anything, we have to get your familiar. You shouldn’t be doing magicks like this without a focus.”

She nods. “That’s fine. Maybe tonight? After school?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” she says. Her hands tremble. “Okay. Then—we’re doing this.”

Jughead nods. “We’re doing this.”

She takes his hand, and squeezes hard. Jughead squeezes back.


	18. The Call of the Wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Betty gets her familiar. Veronica comes out with a secret. Cheryl's making plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ring ring....it's Betty's familiar...ringin' you on the bananaphone..._
> 
> CW for mentions of FP's alcoholism, mentions of drug abuse and heroin, and...that's it I think. Also, a wild Archie appears.
> 
> Also! I made a playlist that I listen to while I write TCDA. [Those Certain Detestable Acts](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5hSMQPIGjCLKxemiy53Grj?si=u3_Pvg3fSjqVxfuKXcbhcw)

FP doesn’t call him.

Honestly, Jughead wasn’t expecting him to. He knows his father. He knows the steps of this dance and has since he can remember, him stepping forward, FP waiting two beats and then retreating. Then, when Jughead steps back, not expecting anything better, FP steps forward with promises. _I’m doing better. I’m working on it. I’m not drinking. I swear._ Back and forth and back and forth, for years. The more frequently FP is getting drunk, the worse it gets, until he feels like he’s chasing his father on unsteady ground, a rocky ledge that could shatter beneath his feet.

Not all alcoholics go into remission. He knows that. Alcoholism is a disease without a cure, a sickness of the brain. His father is sick, and his mother is sick, he knows that too, though he’s not sure if a doctor would call her that without a beer in her hand or a needle in her arm. He has sickness in his blood. It’s why he doesn’t drink. He doesn’t do drugs, though they get passed around at school enough. He’s sure there’s more heroin in Riverdale High than there is even at South Side, rich kids with dime bags of his dad’s weed in their pockets that they won’t get more than a stern talking-to for, where people like him or Sweet Pea or Toni would get sent to juvie. And he’s pretty sure his dad still wouldn’t answer a phone call.

**_Nothing from FP?_ **

Jughead looks down at Razz—she’s tucked herself in the hollow of a tree, looking very content and with dirt perching on the end of her long nose—before shoving his phone back into his pocket. A few yards away, Betty’s scuffing her clean white Keds through the forest earth, looking for something. “Nope. What do you want to bet he’s passed out at the Wyrm right now?”

Razz gives him a reproachful look. Somehow it’s not as intimidating with moss in her spines. **_Or he could be asleep._**

“Yeah, right.”

**_You’re being vindictive._ **

“I’m _angry_ , Razz,” he says. He keeps his voice low, so Betty won’t hear. “And why are you suddenly on his side? All these years it’s been _he treats you badly, Jughead_ and _I don’t like how he talks to you when he’s drunk, Jughead_.”

 ** _Those three feelings can coexist, child of mine._** Razz noodles her nose into the dirt for a second more, and then shakes herself all over, getting back to her feet. **_You’re being nasty because you’re worried._**

“Damn right I’m worried. Sweet Pea said he was on a pickup. Some drug trafficker could have shot him, and—” And he wouldn’t know until some state sheriff calls him in to identify the body. Raw salt surges up his throat. “I ask him for one thing and he flakes.”

 ** _He’s an addict, Jughead_** , Razz says, and waddles across the clearing towards a batch of clover. **_You need to give him time._**

“I’ve always given him time,” says Jughead, and kicks the thickest root he can reach. Over his head, the tree _swish_ es, as if to say, _why are you taking it out on me, asshole?_ “I’ve given him time since I was _born_. I’m so—Razz, I’m _tired_ of waiting for him to get better.”

 ** _I know_** , says Razz, softly. **_You shouldn’t have to._**

He can’t look at her. Jughead looks up to the treetops, to the slowly changing leaves of late summer. He’s always had a stronger bond with the River—right from when he was born, half on land, half in the Sweetwater, and the River pushed him back to shore when the Circle midwife lost her grip—but Fox Forest is one of his favorite places in the world. Once when he’d been little, Lavender had told him some witches had once known how to sing to the trees and get them to recount their history. The art had been lost when Pickens attacked the Uktena, but whenever he comes out here he wonders if the trees themselves remember the song.

“Hey,” says Betty. Her voice echoes across the clearing, soft and a little anxious. “I think here’s good.”

“Here?” He feels nothing about this clearing at all, nothing particularly magical or important. One of the trees looks like a giant’s torn it in half. Betty rests her hand to the broken wood, just for a moment, before turning back to him.

“This is the place,” she says. The pentacle’s lying on top of her shirt, for once. Bare, for the ceremony. “It feels right.”

 _How the fuck did I miss that she was a witch all these years when she says things like that?_ Jughead swallows, his mouth a little tacky. “Okay.”

Betty wipes her hands on the fabric of her sweater, and then tightens her ponytail. She’s anxious, he thinks. “Hey,” he says. “Relax. It’ll be okay. And in case something happens or something nasty shows up, we can deal with it. Razz and me.”

“I know.” She bites her lower lip. “I just—how long do you think it’ll take?”

“The ceremony? A minute or two.”

“You know what I mean.”

He does. Jughead rubs the end of his nose. “It can take a few hours or a few days,” he says, after a while. “Spirits—when a witch calls for a spirit familiar, only some spirits will hear them. And then they have to decide who will go. Sometimes it takes a while, or sometimes the spirit has to travel a long way between worlds.”

“Between worlds,” Betty echoes, and scuffs her Ked through the dirt again. “How long did it take Razz to find you, after you did this?”

“I’m—kind of a weird case,” he says. “She actually found me before I ever did the ceremony.”

Razz sneezes, triumphantly, and then says, **_And I was right to._**

“Usually it doesn’t take more than a day,” says Jughead, as Betty looks down at Razz. “And—spirits are clever. If there are mortals around, they’ll wait until they’re gone. They don’t want to be exposed any more than we do. Mortals tend to kill things they don’t understand.”

Betty nods. She’s still gnawing on her lip, hard enough that she’s going to split it. He fights the urge to touch her cheek, her jaw, so she’ll stop. She’d probably let him, he thinks. She’s touched him more in the last few days than she has in years. Instead, he says, “You’ll be fine, Betty.”

Her smile is tight and full Mama Cooper, something so fake he wants to spit. “Yeah,” she says. “So I just—start?”

“You just start,” he says. “Whenever you’re ready.” 

Something scuffles against his ankle. Jughead bends, and scoops up Razz, so she can see everything properly. Mundane hedgehogs have terrible vision, but Razz can see for miles if she focuses; he’s sure she’s watching every second of this, to make sure no trickster spirit comes out of the woodwork to bother Betty. Betty turns—she’s wearing one of Veronica’s coats, a bright crimson thing that Betty herself would never pick out but looks nice on her anyway—and then draws the bell out of her coat pocket, finding a stick to sketch the rune out properly in the earth of Fox Forest. She takes a breath, and rings it once, north to south.

“ _Spirits of the forest, I pronounce my intentions to thee._ ”

The trees hush, suddenly. There’s wind, still, but the leaves aren’t whispering anymore. They’re listening, as hard as they can, he thinks. Betty doesn’t look back at him; she’s focused on the woods, on the magic, and when she rings the bell again, east to west, something echoes deep in his magic. She makes the first stroke of the rune, a circle in one perfect motion.

“ _Come forth and seek me, and equal, we will be._ ”

Jughead’s mouth goes tacky. Betty feels like the woods, he realizes. He’s been trying to get a sense of her magic for days—what it is, how strong she is—but her control is ironclad; even without the pentacle he’s loaned her, he’s never felt a _speck_ of magic from her. But now, it’s unfurling, echoing with every ring of the bell. She feels like the deep darkness of fresh earth twined with roots, the smoke and heat and power of a raging forest fire. She feels like Fox Forest, he thinks. Like the home of the Circle.

Betty rings the bell again, and it jolts him out of his thoughts. Spirits all around them are whispering, crowding into the clearing, invisible but there all the same. His ears pop with the air pressure. They’re murmuring, and he can’t really make out the words, but he can catch one or two, in ricochet. _Witch. Spellman. Betty. Betty. Betty._

“ _Not master and servant, but familiar to familiar—_ "

She rings the bell again, northeast to southwest, and draws the second line, through the circle to the south. The spirits grow louder, humming like a struck tuning fork.

“— _to share our knowledge, our spirit, and our traits._ ”

The final ring of the bell, northwest to southeast, and then it’s done. Betty holds the magic still in her palms for one single, singing moment, and then she lifts the stick, and turns back to him. His heart’s racing in his chest. The forest is returning, the sounds and smells, but he barely notices. He can barely breathe.

 ** _Hey,_** says Razz, in his hands. She sounds like she’s trying not to laugh. **_Put your eyes back in, she’s talking to you._**

 _Fuck._ “What?” says Jughead, suddenly. “Sorry, I’m—what’d you say?”

“You okay?” Betty tips her head to the side. “You look a little feverish.”

Razz _cackles._

“I’m fine.” He’s going to _kill_ Razz for laughing at him _._ “The spirits can be a lot sometimes.”

 ** _Yeah,_** says Razz. **_The spirits have your tongue hanging out like a dog._**

He pinches Razz on the hip.

“Oh,” says Betty. “That’s who was whispering?”

“The spirits, yeah.”

“Okay.” She bites her lower lip again, and tucks her hands back into her pockets, stowing the bell away. “So now I just—wait?”

“Yeah,” says Jughead. He swallows a few times, trying to get his voice back to normal. In his hands, Razz chuckles again. “You just wait.”

“Okay.” She hesitates. Then, carefully—she always moves carefully around him, like she’s afraid he’ll explode if she touches too hard—she tucks her hand into his arm. Even through the jean jacket, the touch burns. “So—back to Veronica’s?”

His phone buzzes. A text from Toni, not his dad. _FP Penny & Byrdie are back. All ok. No one hurt._ He unlocks the screen, taps back _ok thank you_ , and then turns his phone off.

“Yeah.”

.

.

.

“So?” says Kevin, and pulls the pillow into his lap. “What’s it like being roommates with Veronica Lodge?”

The Student Lounge is busy today, if only because it’s a Thursday morning. Betty rolls her eyes. Her muscles ache from practice this morning, and she feels—not tired, exactly. Like something’s different inside. She’s never _intentionally_ used her magic the way she had last night, in the early twilight hours; she cast a spell, and it _feels_ like she did it, like she’s exercising a muscle that she’s never used before. It’s not achy, or anything. It just—feels like she’s drained of some energy. “It’s really not that big of a deal, Kev. I’m staying there until my mom gets back on Saturday.”

That had been a fun conversation. She’d come back from school yesterday to find Hermione _still_ on the phone with her mom, Alice’s voice echoing clearly all the way to the front door of the penthouse. It’d taken Betty a full hour to convince her mother that she could stay with Veronica and Hermione until her mom came back from Portland for the memorial on Saturday. Since Alice wouldn’t be coming back to Riverdale until very late at night, they’d just meet at Thornhill and she could go home with Alice afterwards. She’s…not sure if she’s looking forward to it, honestly. She feels safer, somehow, at Veronica’s.

That had not been a fun thing to realize. 

“You’re staying with Veronica though,” says Kevin. “That’s like a big deal.”

“Is it?”

“You think it’s not?”

“It’s not like I’m staying there because I want to be,” says Betty. “My dad’s just being _weird_.”

“Yeah, but still.” He leans forward, holding the pillow tight to his stomach. Yellow and blue and red flickers out of the corner of her eye. Archie, coming in to get something from the vending machine. Betty’s guts drop. She turns so her back is to Archie, unable to breathe. She hasn’t seen Archie really since she argued with him in the police station, since they don’t really have any of the same classes. “Do they have a butler?”

Betty snorts. “ _No_. They have a doorman. I don’t think either of them know how to cook anything other than popcorn and chilaquiles, though. I made dinner last night.”

“You did?”

“I learned how to cook when I was _six_ , Kevin. My mom wants me to be the full package. Career woman _and_ the perfect stay-at-home mom.” She rests her chin in her hand. “They order in from Pop’s and some place in Greendale a lot. Veronica got really excited when I said I could make dinner.”

“Cooking for the Lodges,” coos Kevin, “so fancy,” and Betty lifts her foot out of her Ked to shove him in the shoulder with her toes. Kevin squeals. “Get your nasty feet out of my face!”

“Don’t call my feet nasty!”

“Gross!” He catches her ankle, jerks her sock off. “And even your pedicure is bad, oh my god—”

“Shut up and go simp for Veronica, I’m bad at doing my toes—”

“Greetings, children,” says Cheryl, and Kevin screams. He straight up squeals, as if he’s been stuck with a cattle prod, and lets go of Betty’s foot so fast she almost falls backwards off the couch. Betty slams her foot to the floor to catch herself, and thinks, _fuck_. The last thing she needed today was _Cheryl Blossom_ coming up to her in front of _everyone_. Even Archie is staring, a Snickers bar in one hand. “Betty. I need to discuss tomorrow’s plan with you.”

Tomorrow. Sleepover. “Right,” says Betty. She tugs her shoe back on. “Um—do you want to go outside, or—”

“Nonsense,” says Cheryl cheerily, and sits on the table. “Here is perfectly fine.” She hasn’t looked at Kevin once. “You’ll be required to come home with me tomorrow, as my parents don’t allow Ubers or Lyfts onto their property if they’re home.”

Which also means she won't be able to leave easily if something goes wrong. Betty makes a mental note to ask Jughead how to do his transposition spell. “Your parents will be home?”

“Of course,” says Cheryl. She lifts her eyebrows. “Every member of the Blossom family will be there to mourn for Jay-Jay tomorrow. We’re not savages.”

Betty darts a look at Kevin, and bites her tongue on everything she could say.

“As it’s Friday, I refuse to allow you to bring books or homework to my home,” says Cheryl. “I want all your energies focused on preparing for the memorial on Saturday. You also need to bring proper mourning clothes, as I _don’t_ share my clothing with anyone, even a fellow River Vixen. We _will_ be going walking through Thornhill’s gardens, so bring proper shoes. And I don’t tolerate trespassers. If your—crown-wearing hobo—” she wrinkles her nose “—shows up before the memorial on Saturday, he _will not_ be let onto the property.”

“Jughead’s not a _hobo_ ,” Betty snaps.

Cheryl ignores her. “The east wing is not for guests. That’s where my parents reside. You do _not_ go snooping around in there, Nancy Drew. If I find you somewhere you’re not supposed to be, you will be out shivering in the cold before you have time to say _breaking and entering_.”

“Okay,” says Betty. She wets her lips. “Um, do you want me to tell Veronica, or—”

“I will be speaking to Veronica momentarily,” says Cheryl. She leans forward, and busses Betty’s cheek with her lips. The kiss is cold, perfunctory, and leaves the lightest print of lipstick behind, along with the feel of pumice under her skin. “If you are late, we will _not_ wait for you.”

“Okay.”

“Well, then,” she says, and springs to her feet. “See you in River Vixens practice, Betty. White RuPaul,” she adds, to Kevin, and then she’s out the door, hair swirling behind her like flames.

Betty looks at Kevin. His eyes are so wide that the whites are showing all around his pupils.

“Something you want to tell me?” he says, in a high-pitched voice.

Betty hears the door to the student lounge slam. When she looks back over her shoulder, Archie’s not there anymore.

.

.

.

“I’m sorry I keep borrowing your clothes,” Betty says. Veronica scoffs.

“Honestly, it’s fine. I can transfigure them back to my size as soon as you go back to Elm Street.” Veronica gives her a sideways look. “If you ever want to back when your parents are being such fascists.”

“I have to.” Betty crosses her legs, holding her ankles between her hands. Pyewacket’s lounging on an embroidered silk pillow next to her, purring softly. “Like—what if Polly comes back while I’m not home? Or if I leave, then—what if she’s never able to get better? What if my parents are just—worried about Polly, and they’re not talking about it? I don’t know. I just need to be back there.”

“Suit yourself,” says Veronica. She pulls a full-black leopard print skirt out of the closet. “Yes for the memorial?”

“No,” says Betty.

“Party-pooper.” She puts the skirt back. “I still think the fact that you don’t even know where Polly _is_? Is crazy.”

“Believe me, I’ve asked. They just keep falling back on the line of _she’s sick and she’ll come home when she’s better._ ” Betty blows air out. “If she’s really sick then I want to _see_ her, not—not be stuck away from her. Polly and I are really close, like—what must she think that I haven’t come to see her? If she’s really sick?”

“Honestly, B, after hearing what your mom had to say to you yesterday I think it’s _way_ more likely that she’s just like. Been packed off to one of your cousins or something until she stops arguing with them. Like, your dad tried to force you to get Jughead _arrested_.”

“He thinks Jughead’s horrible and I don’t—” Betty sighs. “I’m sure he thought he was trying to help. But he just doesn’t listen, and I just—I don’t know.”

Veronica pulls a dress out—short, but not indecently; all black; Peter Pan collar—and then lays it across the couch in her room. Not looking at Betty, she says, “If you need to stay here, Betty, you can. My mom likes having you here.”

“I don’t want to cause trouble.”

“Seriously, if you cook like that every night she might even hire you to just be a live-in friend or something. She’s done that before.”

Betty shifts. “That’s—that’s kind of weird, Veronica.”

“Is it?” Veronica shrugs, and then pulls another dress out. “This one?”

Betty considers. It’s knee-length, not thigh-length, with long sleeves and a beautiful lace inlay over the sleeves and bodice that would expose a bit of her throat without it being too much or making her uncomfortable. “Did you ever wear this? It looks new.”

“I think the last time I wore it was to midnight mass, before my dad was taken away.” Veronica frowns at it, and then tosses it over the chair, too. “I think it’d be cute on you, though. You’ll just need to let your hair down.”

“That’s the plan.”

“Good! Save that scalp of yours before all your hair falls out at thirty.”

Betty frowns, and then says, “My mom makes me wear it this way.”

“Honestly, B, you have the _worst_ parents, and that’s coming from _me_.” Veronica examines the rest of her closet, and then snaps it closed. “I think those are the two that’d look best on you if you want to try them.”

“Thank you again, for doing this. I could go home, but—”

“Even if you use Jones’s transposition door your dad might hear you. Too much drama. Give him a day or two more to cool off. And if you need to just go back to get clothes and come back here that’s fine too, okay?”

“You really don’t have to be so nice to me,” says Betty. “I’m not like—I don’t know.”

Veronica puts her hands on her hips. Then she lets out a gusting sigh, and drops down onto the bed next to Betty. Pyewacket immediately crawls off his fancy silk pillow to sit on her lap. “You remember what I told you in Pop’s? When you and me and Archie all met?”

Betty shuffles around on the bed. Veronica’s wearing reading glasses, for once—“it’s super embarrassing,” she’d said, when she’d put them on; “like, I’m _sixteen,_ not eighty”—and Betty can see her own reflection in them, now that the black-out curtains are pulled away from the windows. The sun is setting, but it’s casting tongues of orange and gold onto the floor and white bedspread. “Kind of.”

Veronica smooths her skirt out, careful to work around Pyewacket. Her nails are painted black, pointed delicately at the ends. “Like—two months before my dad got arrested, I had my Dark Baptism,” she says. “It’s—it’s like your confirmation, in Catholicism. You sign the Book of the Beast, which is like—it’s a contract, between the witches of our coven and the Dark Lord. Every coven has one, gifted by our Lord, and when you sign it, you sign in blood, to promise your soul to Satan and ensure He can call upon you to do your duty to Him, if he needs your assistance. Barely anyone actually gets called to do more than a day or two of work, or casting a simple spell.”

“He has you do things?”

“Of course,” says Veronica, eyes going wide behind her glasses. “We get our magic and power from the Dark Lord. What’s one favor in exchange for the most delicious sort of magic?”

 _The pagans don’t do that_ , she almost says, but she bites down on the inside of her lip. She doesn’t want to start another spat about paganism versus Satanism, especially when Veronica’s trying to explain something. “I guess.”

“Anyway,” says Veronica. “The Church of Shadows does this thing where like—the night before your Dark Baptism, you get your fortune read by the High Priest. You cut your hand—” she opens her palm to show a scar, arcing over her palm—“and then you let your blood fall into a cup of unholy water, and he reads the patterns and tells you things you can expect. He’s always been right.”

“He reads your fortune?”

“He told me I’d get to be part of a magical triad,” she says.

“What’s that mean?”

“Like—” Veronica considers. “Like three witches whose magic meshes together. Who can—who can do stronger, better, more effective workings if they’re together. Like—have you heard of the Triple Goddesses?”

“From Wicca?”

“Kind of. Anyway—in the Churches of Darkness, being part of a triad is a big deal. And like—triads are to be sisters. There’s a triad at the Academy of Unseen Arts, over in Greendale—that’s like, a witch boarding school—that found each other when they were little girls, and they’re a _really_ big deal. They’re called the Three-In-One, and the Sisters of Night, and—a lot of stuff.”

Her palms are sweating. Betty dries them on her borrowed jeans. “So—so you think I’m—”

She trails off.

“I could feel your magic in Pop’s,” says Veronica. “And—I don’t know. It was just—something I _knew_. When I saw you. That we’re supposed to be two parts of a triad.” She wets her lips. “Best friends. Like—sisters. You know?”

_You can call me V, Betty. I have a feeling that we’re going to be best friends._

“Oh,” says Betty, softly.

“It’s like—not a huge deal.” Veronica picks at her fingernails. “Like—it _is_ , but—I don’t want to scare you with it. Because—you know, you just learned about everything. But—I don’t know.” She stands up, abruptly, Pyewacket in her arms. “You don’t ever have to apologize for asking for favors. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

Veronica’s uncomfortable. She looks away, hiding her face in Pyewacket again. “I’m gonna—let you change.”

Veronica’s never left the room for Betty changing before. Still, they both—need it, almost. There’s a _lot_ in Betty’s head, now, and clearly Veronica’s—scared. Anxious. “Okay,” says Betty, softly.

Veronica’s gone before Betty can say another word.

She changes in Veronica’s ensuite bathroom. It means she gets to wash her face, her hands, clean of sweat and anxiety. The first dress, with the Peter Pan collar, doesn’t fit properly; Veronica’s done the spell to resize them, but there’s something about how the collar rests on her clavicles that Betty doesn’t like. The other dress, with the lace inlay, fits better, and she likes the weight of the fabric. She undoes her ponytail, and looks at her reflection in the mirror, tugging her fingers through her hair to get it to settle properly.

 _A triad._ She tugs her fingers through her hair again. She doesn’t know enough about it to think that it would be something she _wants_. If it’s like—something that important, to witches, she wants to think about it more, have more time to learn about what it’d mean.

Jughead will probably know more about whether triads are real, she thinks, and then settles her hair over her shoulders. The dress looks nice. If she can put a cardigan over it, she thinks, her mother _might_ not flip out at her showing skin. She can ask Jughead about it, and see if she can find books. He’d said that his parents had spellbooks; if she can get her hands on books of magical history, or something, then maybe—

The sudden crash of shattering glass makes her _scream_. Betty whips around, seizing the nearest object that comes to hand—a hot curler, still plugged into the wall—to wield like a baseball bat. Outside, though, is all silence; there’s no thumping, no movement, no stomping around. No flapping wings, either, which had been her second thought. _Maybe a bird flew in the window?_ God, she hopes it’s not dead. Betty, carefully, puts the hot curler back down, and then pushes the bathroom door all the way open.

The window closest to Veronica’s bed is completely shattered. It hasn’t been opened; it’s just _exploded_ , glass shards all over. Betty tucks her feet back into her Keds, tugging them up over her heels, and then steps to look out the window. They’re on the fifth floor, so there’s no way someone threw a rock in the window or something as a joke, but there’s no blood or feathers; it’s like the window’s just burst all on its own.

It’s only when she gets closer that she sees the gashes. There’s eight of them, four perfect slashes in the wood of the sill. Like claws, she thinks. She opens the windowframe, careful not to knock more glass out, and looks out. No one out there on the street, no marks on the outside. Just—claw marks. Like some kind of animal.

 ** _I heard you_**.

Betty screams, and the window slams shut again. The marks on the sill are gouged deep, splinters of wood standing on end; they prick into her hands when she whips around, jamming into her skin. There’s—something—in the corner of Veronica’s room, something long and freakish-thin, its fingers the length of her arm and wicked sharp, eyes gleaming like crescent moons. It _ripples_ , the same motion as fabric in the wind.

“Help,” says Betty, but it’s inaudible. She can’t get her throat to work. _She can’t talk._

 ** _I heard you calling in the woods_**. The voice is cavernous, shadowy; it seems to almost nestle into her head, something whispery like wind and deep like roots. It’s _inside_ her, not—not outside, not something coming in her ears. It’s something coming through her magic. **_And I came_**.

“Oh,” says Betty, so, so softly. There’s a ripple; a flicker. The shadow slides down the wall, and it seems, almost, to _melt_ ; shifting, rippling, reforming—

She’s not entirely sure, at first, _what’s_ coming towards her. The motion is odd; top-heavy, like the body is angled wrong. Then she sees the teeth; the shadowy, speckled fur; the big, expressive ears and the dark eyes. It’s a hyena, she thinks. A hyena. _A hyena._ She doesn’t know _anything_ about hyenas. She’d thought a familiar would be—smaller, maybe. A little easier to hide. But—but he _feels_ right, she thinks. Hermione had sat her down before she'd gone out with Jughead the evening before, to talk about familiars, what to expect. _You share your magic. Whatever form your familiar will take, it'll be based on your magic, and your soul._ Her familiar is a hyena because she crafted him that way. Big, burly, and dangerous, and _not_ perfect, not at all something small and cute and flawless for the perfect girl-next-door. Different. Wilder. Stronger.

 _Mine_ , she thinks. _My familiar. Mine._

 ** _Hello_** , says the hyena. The voice has shifted, too. It’s a little higher now, though still husky and sibilant, like wind in leaves. **_You’re Betty_**.

Betty slowly, carefully unlatches her nails from the windowsill. She smooths her skirt down over her knees, and then she crouches, holding out her hands. The hyena comes closer, skittering sideways like a crab, before she touches the ruff of fur around their neck, and realizes— _oh_. There’s _magic_ under their skin. _His_ skin. They’re a he, and when she touches him he rests all his weight to her knees and leans his head to her shoulder, tongue lolling out of his mouth like a happy dog. A he, and young, she thinks. Not a baby but—rambunctious. That’s what it feels like, sounds like. If Razz is motherly, this one needs occasional mothering.

“I’m Betty,” she says, and she rubs his ears. “What do I call you?”

 ** _I don’t know!_** His tail wags, just a little, flicking back and forth like a fly swat. **_I get to pick. That’s what they say._**

“Who?”

**_Other spirits. I get to pick my name, that’s the rule. Some witches name familiars, but those familiars are bred goblins, not like me._ **

“What are you?”

**_I’m a spirit of the woods._ **

“What’s the difference?”

He sniffs. **_They’re bred. I’m free. I chose to come find you. I didn’t have to, I wanted to. Goblins don’t get the choice._**

Betty says, “Oh.”

He sticks his nose into her throat, takes a deep breath, and then sneezes. **_You smell good. Like verbena and the Master Pine._**

“Thank you,” says Betty, a little flustered. “What’s the Master Pine?”

 ** _The oldest tree in the woods. An ancient, ancient tree._** He snuffles at her ear this time, at her hair, and sneezes again. **_You’re my witch._**

“I guess so.”

 ** _You’re my witch!_** He starts to wiggle, panting happily. **_You called and I came, and now I get to pick my name and be your familiar and help you with magic and share magic and protect you._**

“What kind of name do you want?”

The wiggling slows. He considers, carefully, and licks his teeth, his nose. **_I don’t know. I’ll think about it._**

“Okay.” Betty hesitates. “Can I touch you?”

He wiggles again, his tail spinning almost in circles. **_I have a body and it’s weird._**

“You didn’t have a body before?”

 ** _I was a spirit, I couldn’t touch things._** The wiggles get about eight times more intense as he crosses his legs by accident, and tumbles to the floor, baring his belly. **_Pet!_**

Betty scritches at his chest, his stomach, the underside of his heavy, powerful jaw. His teeth are almost as long as her fingers, but she’s not scared of him. He’s a part of her, how could she possibly be frightened of him?

 ** _There are other witches here,_** he informs her helpfully, and rolls over so fast he almost clocks her in the face with his big feet. **_And familiars, I can smell them._**

“They’re my friends,” she says. “Jughead and Razz, and Veronica and Pyewacket. And Veronica’s mom, Hermione. I don’t know her familiar’s name.”

Her familiar hums, thoughtfully. **_They smell powerful._**

“Do they?”

He sneezes. **_Especially the male. Boy? Is that the word?_**

She almost laughs. _Male?_ “Yeah, that’s the word. Boy. Jughead’s a boy.”

 ** _A powerful boy._** He considers. **_A powerful witchboy. I can call him witchboy, is that okay?_**

“Yeah, that’s okay. His name is Jughead, though.”

 ** _Jughead._** He rolls it around in his mouth. **_Witchboy Jughead._**

Betty can’t help it. She laughs, and scruffs his jaw. “I’ll tell him you call him that.”

Her familiar looks at her for a long time. His eyes are deep and dark, his teeth white as shells, and he tips his head sideways like he’s evaluating her. Then: **_You’re powerful too._**

“I am?”

He leans forward, and licks her face the way a happy puppy might. Something tingles against her skin like static. **_Mmhm. My witch is powerful._**

He sounds pleased.

“How can you tell?” She looks at her hands. “I don’t—have a lot of control yet.”

 ** _I can tell,_** he says, and licks his nose. **_We share magic, and you’re very strong. It makes the world sharper. I can see really well, and my shape’s solid and strong._**

“You can feel all that?”

 ** _It’s different to have a physical shape. I’ve spent decades without one. I’ll take a while to get used to it._** He considers. **_What’s the girl-witch’s name?_**

“Veronica.”

**_She smells like cat._ **

“Her familiar is a cat.”

 ** _Oh._** He licks her cheek, tongue raspy and damp, and then says, **_Can we go meet them?_**

Betty puts her arms around his neck, and holds on. She’s pretty sure hyenas are supposed to smell like dead things—they roll around in dead things, she remembers that from middle school biology, to mark their territory and scare lions off—but her familiar smells like the woods, like moss and trees and wind, like the breeze off the Sweetwater. It’s like her morning runs are back, and held close in her arms, and she squeezes tight enough to make him sigh. When she pulls back, her eyes are a little damp; she wipes them on the hem of her sleeve.

“Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, let’s go meet them. And we can look through some books to pick your name if you want.”

**_Yeah._ **

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pic of Betty's familiar just to get y'all excited!
> 
> I hope people are okay with this choice. This is an image I've had since the start of this fic, and the fact that he's an African animal while Betty is white is a problem that I'm aware of. The reasoning behind how and why he took this form will be explained.


	19. Interlude: Ambrose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hilda and Ambrose Spellman get an unexpected set of visitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Mentions of mortuary/embalming work, vague descriptions of human organs and severed hands, interesting dietary choices, Targaryen-style incest, and Ambrose being Flirty AF. 
> 
> For those of you who aren't as practiced with CAOS: Ambrose is Sabrina's English cousin, who has been on house arrest with the Spellman family for seventy-five years after attempting to blow up the Vatican. It's unclear if he was trying to blow up the Catholic Vatican, or the Anti-Pope's Vatican/the other Churches of Darkness. He's also queer as a three dollar bill and My Son. For those of you familiar with the original Sabrina TV show, he kind of takes on a similar role to Salem Saberhagen, but he's not a cat. 
> 
> The Spellman sisters, Zelda (Miranda Otto) and Hilda (Lucy Davis) run a mortuary on the outskirts of Greendale. As Ambrose lives with them, he's taken over most of the embalming work, while Hilda runs the business, Zelda manages witchy business, and Sabrina goes to mortal high school.

Ambrose spends most of the night preparing a mortal body for burial.

He doesn’t really have a set schedule. The most demands he has on his time, aside from when Sabrina wants to wreak havoc, are when bodies come into the mortuary. Aunt Hilda used to be the lead, for body-work, but when he’d been placed on house arrest with his aunts in 1943, Hilda had taken him under her wing to teach him what to do. How to wipe bodies down with water and soap to clean them; how to stitch up wounds that gaped, massage limbs into the desired position for the showing. Even how to reconstruct broken skulls, broken faces. How to apply the makeup.

It’d been a bonding process for them, he thinks. Hilda had raised him, after his parents had been killed; it’d been why the Spellman sisters had been chosen to supervise him, after what happened at the Vatican. But Hilda teaching him how to clean bodies for burial had been good for them both. It’d given him something to do, so he wouldn’t be completely mad being stuck inside all day, and given Hilda something to teach, so she didn’t feel useless in this house with only her sister to rattle around in it with.

Sabrina had been an unwelcome addition at first. He’d grown used to the dynamic of the three of them, him and Aunt Hilda and Aunt Zelda, and then Edward and his mortal bride had brought a squalling baby girl with a head of bright yellow hair to the house. Ambrose had hated her in a juvenile sort of way, like a spoiled brat, until Zelda had dumped a howling Sabrina in his arms one day, soon after Edward and Diana’s deaths. The baby had blinked at him, and then stopped crying immediately, latching to his finger without hesitation with her tiny hands. He’d decided, in that moment, that he’d die for her, though he wasn’t sure why. She was his cousin, he thinks. She _is_ his cousin. More like his sister. For Spellmans, blood will out.

He taught Sabrina, in the end, how to clean a body. He still sometimes thinks of Sabrina, all of twelve, with her solemn little face, watching him wash and manipulate a dead mortal into the crossed-arms position of a funeral. Now she’s weeks away from being sixteen, and it feels like he’s barely taken a breath. Time is funny, when you measure it by someone else’s life.

This body is that of an old woman, with wrinkled skin and a glass eye that he has to scoop out of the socket to drop in distilled water, wash it clean. He leaves the machine working, to drain the old blood out and pump embalming fluid in, before stripping off his gloves and starting up the stairs to the kitchen. It’s barely past dawn. Zelda will be outside, he thinks, taking in the sunrise with her first coffee as she does every morning. Hilda’s bustling around making breakfast for Sabrina. Probably a weekday, he thinks. Days sort of blend together, in his world.

“Good morning, Auntie,” he says, and bends to kiss her cheek before dropping down into his usual chair, feet on the table with ankles crossed. “You look ravishing today, as usual.”

“Oh, flirt with someone else,” says Hilda crossly, and goes to make one of her herbal concoctions. Ambrose lifts one eyebrow.

“Everything all right?”

“Everything is fine, Ambrose, honestly—oh, _bother_ ,” says Hilda, as the mason jar of dried lavender slips right between her fingers. It doesn’t shatter, mostly because all of Hilda’s jars are spelled against it, but the lavender _does_ spill across the floor, in a pretty purple arc. “Slippery fingers—get the broom for me, darling, would you—”

Ambrose frowns, and then wipes it away, immediately, turning away to find the broom cabinet. The witch’s broom that Zelda made thirty years ago rattles when he opens up the cupboard, and he strokes it back to sleep with two fingers before aiming for the dustpan. “You’ve met someone, haven’t you?”

Hilda snorts. “Yes, of course. That’s the only thing it could be. No, I haven’t, dear, but thank you for inquiring.”

“Then—” He considers. “Perhaps the Dark Lord’s made a request of you, then?”

“Oh, no, dear.” Hilda wipes her hair back out of her face. “No, nothing like that.”

Ambrose crouches, hitching his dressing gown out of the way, and begins to sweep up the lavender. Hilda, in her turn, steps around him to get the eggs, crack them into the frying pan and add chili and lamb’s blood to them, same as always, murmuring over it for good health and good tidings. The mason jar, he sees, has a crack in the base.

He says, “Aunt Hilda.”

“Yes, dear?”

“Have you been able to hide anything from me in the last seventy-five years?”

Hilda looks up at him through her curls, and scowls a bit. “Ambrose.”

“So why,” he says, as he hands her the little hand-held brush and the dustpan, “do you think you’ve been hiding anything from me the last few weeks?”

Her eyes flicker. Hilda looks back down at her frying pan, and adds rosemary to the mixture. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, love.”

Ambrose screws the lid back onto the mason jar, and sets the lavender on the sill, where it belongs. Without looking at her, he says, “I’m not Sabrina, Auntie. I’ve noticed things.”

“Oh?” Hilda’s voice cracks. “What things?”

“You’ve had nightmares every night since Auntie Z put you in the Cain Pit. The milkpan is in the sink every morning, so you’ve been up trying to make yourself sleeping tonics. And ever since Midnight Mass last Sunday you’ve been jumpy. You’ve broken three jars of basilisk eggs, you know. And last night you spilled your tea all down your frock.”

Her lashes flare wide. Hilda, he thinks, has no talent at obfuscation, really. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, dear. Get the bacon out of the fridge, would you?”

“Hm,” he says. “No.”

“ _Ambrose_.”

“No bacon until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“Oh, for goodness _sake_ ,” she says, and blows hair out of her eyes. “It’s really none of your business, love, and it’s something I’m not even sure will lead up to anything—”

“Auntie, I don’t like to see you worried.” He touches her shoulder, gently. “So—if you can tell me, please tell me.” Then, slightly uncomfortable, he says, “Or you can at least give me someone to curse for you, I haven’t had a chance for a good witching in months.”

“You’re a terrible rogue,” says Hilda, but she smiles at him, so he knows she doesn’t mean it. Then, like he knows she will, she caves. “Make the tea, love. We’ll chat once Sabrina’s off to school.”

“Chat about what?” says Sabrina brightly. Ambrose swans by her, tweaking her earlobe with two fingers.

“How to cook and eat you properly.”

“Ugh, _Ambrose_.” She shoves his hand away, a smile flickering around her mouth. “You smell like embalming fluid.”

“Of course I do, cousin. I’ve spent all night with the dearly departed Mrs. Fletcher while _you_ were snoring away in your own bed, thank you _very_ much for taking the night shift again, Ambrose—”

“You’re gross,” she says. Sabrina squeals when he hooks an arm around her neck to kiss the top of her head. “Ugh, go _shower_ —”

“And disturb my alluring natural aroma?”

“Children,” says Hilda, and Sabrina snaps to attention, her smile getting wider when Hilda kisses her brow. Ambrose steals the newspaper Sabrina’s brought in for Auntie Z, and goes off to shower. He _does_ smell like embalming fluid, and it’ll take a bit for Sabrina to get off to school, anyway.

He has a sneaking suspicion that Hilda’s faking one of her migraines, to force Zelda out of the house to do the grocery shopping. Usually that’s Hilda’s duty—Zelda, as the more overtly talented witch, usually handles coven errands, while Hilda, as the home and hearthwitch, handles the house things, cooking and cleaning and making sure the greenhouse is properly tended—but she must want Zelda out of the way for this conversation. He taps his bare foot in affectionate greeting to old Vinegar Tom, done and dusted and stuffed with cotton at the end of the hallway—the familiar’s long dead, but it’s a habit, and has been for three decades now—before making his way to the greenhouse.

Hilda is the only one who tends to anything in the greenhouse. It’s mostly natural, mundane herbs—lavender, rosemary, thyme, basil—but there are magical things in there, too. Hilda has a whole pot of hands of glory (and to this day he doesn’t know how she ever acquired so many hands of hanged men); there’s a whole wall dedicated to different species of nightshade and wolfsbane; a trellis hangs from the ceiling, cracks spiraling through the wood from the weight of the slowly fattening mandrake roots; and he has to step over her pride and joy, a bloodsucking vine that crawls around the room seemingly of its own will, looking for any of the mice and rats it can latch to. Hilda’s already deep in contemplation, her arms up to the elbows in potting soil, when Ambrose seizes a chair, turns it backwards, and straddles the thing, wrapping his arms around the back of it. Hilda’s collecting her thoughts, he thinks. She’s biting her lip in the way that means she’s thinking very fast, and very carefully, about what she wants to say.

“You and Edward were never particularly close,” she says, abruptly, and scoops what looks like a malformed potato out of her ceramic pot. When she brushes dirt off it, he realizes it’s actually an organ, probably Mrs. Fletcher’s kidney. He’d removed all the organs from the body late last night; she must have collected them while he was washing the smell off.

Ambrose leans back, and says, “Me and Edward? Best of chums, we were.”

“Don’t be pert,” says Hilda. She removes another organ—the heart, this time—from the soil to set neatly on her workbench. Then she says, “Have you ever tried to summon him?”

“In séance?” says Ambrose, in surprise. “Only once. He didn’t come. I wasn't overeager to get another lecture on how to _properly behave around mortals,_ so I didn't try again. I would have figured he'd moved beyond Witch Limbo by now."

“Well, he hasn’t,” says Hilda, and smacks part of a liver down onto the bench. “I saw him, while I was in the Cain Pit. He risked his soul to talk to me, Ambrose, and honestly, I—I still don’t know what to make of what he said.”

Ambrose’s senses snap to attention. He hasn’t had a familiar in seventy-five years, not since Rome, but when he focuses in, he can still feel Hilda’s magic broiling around the room. She’s anxious, he thinks. Letting her hold on it go just a little bit, to let him get a sense of how panicked she truly is. He doesn’t move, just holds the back of the chair tighter in his arms. “I’m supposing it wasn’t all sunshine and roses, then.”

“He said—” Hilda wipes her cheek with the back of one dirt-ridden hand, smearing it across her skin. “He said he and Diana were murdered for a—a manifesto he was writing—”

“Manifesto?”

“Things about—” she swallows. “Things about how witches and mortals are—I don’t know. But—he said—he said some things and I’ve—been wondering how best to deal with it, to be honest. The nightmares have just…been a side-effect.”

Ambrose watches her hands moving, quick and clean. Hilda’s familiars are all spiders, and he can see it in how steady and methodical she is. She’s slower than Zelda to temper, his auntie-mother, and shyer, but she makes beautiful things out thin air. “What did he say?”

Hilda drags the potting soil out from beneath her work bench, dumps more into the pot, and then lays the heart on top. “Mortimer.”

“Sixteen years without hearing a single word for him and he decides to talk about _Mortimer?_ ” Ambrose wracks his brain. He’d already been under house arrest when Mortimer had been born, and then the man’d died within fifty years; barely old enough to leave the Academy, let alone take part in the great witchings of the world. “Didn’t he get himself killed by a hunter twenty years ago?”

“Sixteen,” says Hilda, in a brittle, anxious voice. “Edward said he left behind a child. And—I’ve asked one of the Blossoms to look for her, over there, in—that place—but—”

“A _child_?”

“A girl,” says Hilda. She stops, and braces her hand to the pot. “And—Ambrose—I’ve been _worried_ , about this little one, how—how do you know how to be a witch if you’re raised without knowing who your father was? Her mother was mortal, Edward said—she might—she might not even be alive anymore, she might have hurt herself or—or hunters might find her, and we never knew, and I—”

“Hey,” says Ambrose, and stands to put an arm around his aunt. Hilda hiccups a little, and wipes her eyes with dirty fingers. Inside, though—inside his heart is rabbiting through his chest. _Another Spellman,_ he thinks. _Another half-witch_. “Why didn’t you say anything, why—”

“Because you _know_ how Zelds is, Ambrose—if she knew that we had a cousin in _Riverdale_ , of all places, she’d be over there in an instant, spells blazing, and we’d break the accord with the Circle _and_ put ourselves at risk. It’s—hard enough, being so on the outs with the coven, I don’t—I don’t want to risk anyone learning about Sabrina.”

Ambrose rests his chin on top of her head. Witch hunters are rare in Greendale—they know better, he thinks, than to tread into Greendale without a plan of attack, without knowing where to hit—but in Riverdale they’re a penny a dozen. The existence of a pagan Circle still, to this day, mystifies and shocks him; he knows, logically, that there’s no way the Circle _could_ survive in a place like Riverdale, where hunters are packed like lice, and yet it has, through sheer grit and bullheadedness. But witch hunters are always trying to sniff out any trace of magic, and a half-witch, especially, would be a real prize to them. _Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live_ , that’s the line from the False God’s book, and half-witches, half-mortals are sins against nature. Supposed to be impossible. Hated by both sides.

 _Bathsheba and Beelzebub_ , he thinks. Sabrina, at least, had been raised by family who knew what she was, who loved her dearly for it. _What kind of Spellman would this girl even be_?

“Sorry,” sniffs Hilda, and blows her nose on the interior of her sleeve. “Being silly.”

“No, you’re not.” He looks down at the top of her curly head. “What’s the plan, then, Auntie?”

“I’ve not been able to do much,” she says. “I can’t even get into Riverdale, what with the shields on it. I tried on Tuesday, but I just got pushed back. So—so I made a deal with the younger Blossom girl. She’ll look, and in return I’ll do a séance for her dear departed brother.”

Ambrose frowned. He’s never had the opportunity to meet Cheryl Blossom—the Blossom twins were born after he was sentenced—but he’s—heard things, about the Blossoms. The only family in the Church of Night to keep practicing the old ways of intermarriage. “Her fiancé, you mean?”

“Ugh, that family,” says Hilda, and blows her nose again. “Putting that poor girl into a betrothal with her own twin brother is still the most—reprehensible thing I can think of, but Father Blackwood still won't ask them to stop. Anyway, she—promised she’d look around, and a séance is a small price to pay for that.”

“What if Jason’s spirit is vengeful?”

“Oh, don’t you worry, lovey, I can deal with a vengeful Blossom witch.” She sniffs. Then her round face crumples. “I just—I can’t sleep at night, thinking that maybe she’s—been alone all this time, or hurt, or exposed, and she never knew she had _family_ to help her.”

Ambrose rubs Hilda’s shoulder, absently. “How are you going to get into Riverdale?”

“I’ve told Zelds I’m going down to Portland for the day,” she says. “I don’t—need her sticking her nose in quite yet. Cheryl will meet me on the bridge at two o'clock tonight, to let me past the barriers. And then—I suppose—I’m attending their mortal memorial that day. I can only cross my fingers, I suppose, that she’ll be there, or that Cheryl will have some news of her. I don’t—”

The front doorbell rings. Hilda hiccups, and turns away from him, out of the hug. “I’ll get it,” says Ambrose, after a moment, and brushes the dirt off the front of his T-shirt. It’ll give him space to think, out of sight of Hilda.

There have always been barriers and shield spells around the Spellman Mortuary. He helps renew them every year, alongside Zelda and Hilda and Sabrina; protection circles that can be raised at a moment’s notice. They’re usually unnecessary—the Church of Night might be displeased with Zelda and Hilda keeping Edward’s half-mortal daughter, but not enough to actively try to kill any of them—but it’s nice to have them up anyway. When Ambrose taps into one, though, he frowns. Witches, he thinks. Unaffiliated with the Church of Night. Neither of them have any link to any Satanic church at all, he thinks. They don't _feel_ like they should. He stops in the front hall, and then, quietly, says, “ _Cave alienis._ ” Under his toes, the seals glow blue, and then die away again. If the strangers try to get in, he thinks, they’ll meet a brick wall of air that’ll knock their teeth out.

Ambrose yanks the door open, and blinks.

When you get old enough, as a witch, you can tell how old someone is by their magic. It’s a necessity, because witches age so slowly; nobody would know how old _anyone_ was if they couldn’t read the decades in someone’s spellcasting. The older one is certainly the woman, her pink hair and expressive dark eyes fixing hard on his face with a kind of suspicion that has him thoughtful. One of the Uktena, he thinks, though she’s certainly not _only_ Uktena. The other one, the skinny white boy, is a _boy_ , not a grown warlock; he’s not even sworn to a coven, Ambrose thinks. The woman’s marked with the scent of the Circle.

“Hello,” he says, and then leans his shoulder against the doorjamb. “I was under the impression that Riverdale witches didn’t come to this side of the river.”

“You a Spellman?” says the woman, looking irritated. She drops her eyes to his bare feet. “You sound like a Spellman.”

“And what is a Spellman?” Ambrose lifts one hand, waving it. “Who are you?”

“I’m just the escort,” says the Uktena woman. “ _He’s_ the one with the errand.”

Ambrose looks at the boy, up and down, and then grins. He’s pretty, he thinks, for such a twitchy sod. “Oh _really_.”

“I need to talk to the head of the Spellman family,” says the boy. He tugs his hat down lower over his ears. “Or the next best alternative.”

“What about, pretty boy?” Ambrose gives him another deliberate lookover, amused to see the color flood into the boy’s cheeks. _A virgin witch? Interesting._ Pagans were more polyamorous than Satanists, and that was saying something. For a witch on the verge of sixteen to be a virgin, there had to be special circumstances. “Whatever’s happening on your side of the River is your business, you know.”

“Not when it involves a Spellman child on the wrong side of the Sweetwater,” says the woman, and his guts drop inside him like a stone. To cover it, he winks at her, and the woman rolls her eyes. _Ah, well. Not into men, then._ “Jughead?”

 _Jughead_. What an odd name. Then again, the Circle tends to have odd names. The boy glares at the woman, and then looks back to Ambrose, eyebrows drawing together like angry magnets. “We come in place of my father, FP Jones,” he says, stiffly. “Along the terms of the Accord, to ask a favor of the Spellmans. May we come in?”

 _Well, well, well,_ he thinks. _What timing._

“Aunt Hilda!” bellows Ambrose, and turns on his heel, sweeping the protective circle out. It glows blue again, and dies away. “Somebody’s come to talk to us about Mortimer!”

Far down the hall, deep in the garden, he hears the ceramic pot shatter on the stone floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Cave alienis_ : "Beware strangers."


	20. In This House of Wickedness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Betty and Veronica arrive at Thornhill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Mentions of abuse/assault; discussion of bullying/fat shaming/slut shaming; mentions of rape; panic/denial; indirect mentions of incest; Alice being Alice; Cheryl being Cheryl; some mentions of underground passages that may make some people claustrophobic or uncomfortable.

Cheryl and Jason Blossom had first come to Riverdale in middle school.

The Blossom twins had been away, they’d been told, when she, Archie, and Jughead had walked into their first day of eighth grade and seen the two redheads at the front of the room. They’d been sent to boarding school in Europe. Now they would be back in Riverdale. _Make them welcome, all right?_ their principal had said, and patted Jason’s shoulder with one heavy hand. _They’re new in town._

The twins might not have been around when they were growing up, but by no means were the Blossoms _new in town._ The Blossoms had founded Riverdale. Blossom Maple Syrup employed half the South Side in its distillery, and half the North Side in its legal and public relations departments. They were rich; she’d known that since she was even younger, her parents mentioning that name _Blossom, Blossom Maple Syrup_ , her mother’s scoff when she said _if only we had Blossom money, then we could renovate the Register offices like we’ve always wanted._ She’s known since she was younger than that, even, and they’d been kayaking on the Sweetwater, her in her mother’s canoe, and Alice had pointed out the old house on the hill, arm around Betty and her too-big lifejacket. _Look_ , she’d said. _Look, that’s the Blossom’s big manor house. That’s Thornhill._ Then, because Alice was Alice and needed to make sure Betty did as she was told : _If you ever go up there, the ghosts in their basement will eat you alive, bit by screaming bit._

The ghosts of Thornhill are breathing, she thinks, but as cruel as her mother had ever scared her with at night. Cheryl might have been her nightmare in middle school, but Jason had been no kinder than his sister. He’d been very good at pretending to be, smoothing over Cheryl’s sharp edges, sharing milkshakes with her in Pop’s and getting girls to laugh with a smile and a wink, but he’d been any other spoiled, handsome rich boy. A new girlfriend every week, from every class year; for all he’d been a freshman, Jason had been the Bulldogs’ lead quarterback, and no girl, no matter how much older, would have said no to him. Which meant every week he’d had a new name, she realizes now, for that hateful scorebook the football players had kept. A player and a bully—and he hadn’t just bulled Jughead, but others, too, Dilton, Ethel, anyone who wasn’t on his level. He’d laughed when Cheryl called Betty too fat to cheer, whooped when Reggie threw Jughead in the dumpster. He’d had a car he was too young to drive but the cops had never pulled him over; he’d shared ecstasy and heroin at parties but hold your hair back if you were puking in someone’s bushes. Polly had insisted he’d changed, after they’d started dating, but Betty had never seen it. Jason Blossom had been a vicious, hateful, prideful, beautiful, brilliant, kind, stupid boy who was now dead, and nobody knew who had killed him.

It’s still too early for theories, she thinks. Or rather, it’s so early that there are too _many_ theories. Too many people had had motives to want Jason Blossom dead. Jason’s body had been battered and bashed with rocks. A stoning, like at the Salem Witch Trials. The bullet in his head added to the confusion of his death, the back-and-forthness of it. A witch, maybe, who wanted it covered with the scent of the Order or muddled up with mortal death-dealing. A witch-hunter, who decided to add the pistol shot as an added bonus. A mortal, who had no idea who they were killing, and simply used the rocks as a coincidence. Or none at all, she thinks, as she watches Thornhill’s gate roll back on its mechanism to let the chauffer drive them in. There is nothing about Jason’s death or his life that makes sense to her.

Jason had loved Polly, she thinks, but Grundy had abused him. Or—or maybe, she thought, tapping her forefinger to her knee, it’d been something other than that. They’d asked for Grundy’s secrets; maybe not all of the names on that list had been boys she’d abused. Maybe they’d been something else, Jason and Geraldine Grundy, whoever she really was. Maybe she’d asked him for something magic, to get the boys she wanted. Or something completely different from that. There was no way to really know, now; she doubted Grundy would ever admit it either way, and Jason was dead.

_Jason’s ghost is in the River._

There was no guarantee he’d come back, though. Ghosts had their own schedules, she thinks.

Jason, dead in the river, a bullet in his head. Polly had loved him so ferociously she’d turned her back on her family for him—but had he really loved her back? Or had it been some kind of spell, a potion? Had Polly been a pawn in Jason Blossom’s game with mortals? Had she been something different? Why had Jason wanted to leave Riverdale? He’d had Cheryl row him across the Sweetwater to Greendale; had he been trying to get to the Greendale coven, or had there been something else going on they didn’t know about? What had been his plan? What had happened to him that day in Fox Forest? Who had taken him hostage? Where had he been killed and by who? Why hadn’t he been able to fight back? Why had he been a target at all?

She thinks of Jason’s ghost in the Sweetwater, the gaping larynx, the rotting, sloughing flesh. _Polly knows what’s in that house._

_Which house, Jason? Thornhill? Or someplace else?_

“We’re here,” says Cheryl, and Betty jumps. It’s the first thing Cheryl’s said since they clambered into the back of the car, Veronica on one side of her, Betty on the other. Veronica makes a face at her behind Cheryl’s back. “Do I need to reiterate the rules?”

“No snooping in the east wing, wear proper shoes, and bring clothes for the memorial tomorrow.”

Cheryl lifts one eyebrow at Betty. “New rule,” she says. “Don’t speak to my parents unless they speak to you first. They were—unpleasantly surprised when they were informed you’d be attending this little soiree. It took a good three hours to convince them not to kill you on the threshold and let your blood paint the halls of Thornhill, for what your sister did to Jason.”

Betty bites the inside of her cheek. “Oh.”

“Mommy should be on enough Valium by dinnertime that it won’t matter, but if she notices you, just pretend you’re part of the furniture,” says Cheryl, breezy, and then she prods Betty in the ribs with the tips of her manicured nails. It feels like being jabbed by bear claws. “Are you going to sit there forever or get out of the car?”

“I don’t know, are your parents going to kill me?”

Cheryl’s lips tighten. “No. But _I_ might, if you don’t get out of the way.”

Betty scrambles out of the backseat. The driveway up to the Blossoms’ front door is gravel; it crunches under her shoes like shards of glass as Cheryl clambers out after her, brushing her miniskirt down like she’s sat in dust. Betty, in overalls and a T-shirt with a canary on it, feels massively underdressed.

 _Keep your head down_ , that’s what Jughead had said that morning. Betty had gone out to Fox Forest with Ell, since it was one of the only places around Riverdale she could see her familiar in his full form aside from inside the Pembrooke or, hopefully, around the trailer park. Hyenas aren’t exactly the standard woodland creature in Maine. (Neither are hedgehogs, she knows now—hedgehogs aren’t indigenous to the United States—but at least Jughead can hide Razz in his pocket. Ell has to keep to the shadows until she finds a safe place for him to live.) Ell had been zooming up and down the path, sniffing _everything,_ excited about his ability to smell the different plants in the woods. Jughead had come along just in case her transposition casting hadn’t worked properly. _Just keep your head down and try not to draw their attention. They won’t know what to do with you, and that means they’re going to be threatened, and that means they’re going to be dangerous._

(Finding a name for her familiar had taken all of an hour. Betty leaving the bedroom with Ell behind her had set off the equivalent of a grenade in the Lodges’ living room. Veronica had shrieked; Hermione Lodge and her polecat had fallen backwards off the couch; and Jughead had just frozen, Razz in his hands, staring in absolute shock at the hulking hyena plastered to Betty’s hip. It’d taken all of ten seconds for Ell to warm up to Jughead and sniff his hands and cheeks, saying, in Betty’s head: **_Witchboy smells like food and the river and it’s nice_**. Relating it to Jughead had gotten him to blush so red Betty’s still not entirely sure it’s died back down. 

After getting off the table, where she’d leapt when she’d seen a _hyena_ come out of the bedroom, Veronica had hauled out the written registers of all the familiars that the Lodge family had ever had over the course of history. One of those names—Elmanter—had become Ellmanter, had become Ellemanzer. Ell, for short. Ell had gotten so excited that he’d rolled under the table and knocked it over, spilling coffee all over the place. Worth it, Betty thinks, to see him so happy.)

“Blossoms may hunt witch hunters, but they’re not above hexing a Serpent-affiliated witch,” Jughead had said. “And you spend time with me. Even if you haven’t—decided yet what you’re going to do, they’ll be testing you. They’ll want to see which side you choose.”

“Why can’t I just be a hedgewitch?” She’d kicked a stick. “Why do I have to pick a side?”

“Nine out of ten hedgewitches die,” Jughead had said, shortly. “In Riverdale, you’re either a Circle witch, or you’re with the Church of Night. The only exceptions are the Lodges, and the one or two hedgewitches that have survived this century.”

“I know you’ve been to my home before,” says Cheryl, snippily, and Betty jolts back to herself. “Both of you have. There’s no need for this—plebeian sort of staring.”

“I know,” Betty says, and then looks up at Thornhill again, at the shuttered windows and the single gargoyle perched on the northern corner of the rooftop. “I’ve just—I don’t think I’ve ever seen it in daylight.”

“Well,” says Cheryl. “Welcome to daylight. Leave your bags and follow me, ladies. We’re going directly to the gardens.”

Veronica raises her eyebrows at Betty, and then pulls her sunglasses from her hair to settle them on her nose. “Lead the way, then, I guess.”

Betty sticks her hands in the back pockets of her overalls, and trails after.

She’s not entirely sure when Thornhill was built. She’s not sure if anyone’s sure. Before her parents were born, that’s the only thing she knows. It looks like someone’s Long Island interpretation of an old English manorhouse, complete with hedge maze and a carefully tended rose garden with a backyard table just for teatime. Cheryl passes the table and the roses without hesitation, stepping into the hedge maze without looking back to see if they’re following. Veronica drops back, and tips her glasses down her nose to look at Betty over the rims.

“You okay?”

Betty bites the inside of her cheek. Her palms sting. When she looks down, she realizes she’s clenched her hands into fists. Slowly, she loosens her grip. “Yeah,” she says, and smiles. “I’m fine.”

Veronica frowns. “You feel all over the place.”

“Do I?”

“Is it cause Jughead is—well. Because he wasn’t in school today?” She tips her head. “Are you worried about him?”

She can’t help it. Betty sighs. “No. Well—yes, I’m worried about Jughead. Thomas said—” She bites her tongue. “Toni’s with him. It’s fine. I’m fine, seriously.”

She’s not, though. She hates that Veronica can see it—Veronica, who logically shouldn’t be able to see _anything_ about her, as new to town as she is, as little as she knows Betty—but she’s not fine. Jughead went to _Greendale._ Jughead went to Greendale with Toni to see if that family that Lavender talked about was _her_ family. If her father was really—not her father. She’d wanted to go—desperately—but she’s not sure it would have helped. She’s really not sure of anything right now.

“If it helps, I’ve heard a little about the—people he went to see.” Veronica’s eyes dart to Cheryl, a few yards ahead. Cheryl still hasn’t looked back at them, comfortable in her assumption that they’d follow where she led. “They’re—not adverse to speaking to Circle witches. At least, not compared to the rest of the witches in Greendale. You shouldn’t worry so much.”

Betty thinks of what Lavender and Thomas had said about the Spellmans, and keeps her mouth shut. She's still not sure they should have told Veronica about what Lavender had said, but it's too late now. And if Veronica _is_ her triad sister, she thinks, she'll know to not talk about it until they're sure. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

“Okay,” says Veronica. The corner of her lipsticked mouth goes tight. “You sure there’s nothing else?”

“Like what?”

“You guys just seem close, that’s all.”

“Like I said,” says Betty, struggling to keep her temper. “We’ve been friends since we were in kindergarten. Jughead’s protective. I used to think he didn’t have friends ‘cause he was just—a loner. And, I mean, he _is_ , but—but you know, he had a lot to hide that I didn’t—know about. Until now.” Then, frowning: “Though it’s not helping that you and Kevin keep being like—gaga over us.”

“Look, it’s not _my_ fault you two act all goo-goo with each other.” Veronica arches one brow. “But I’ll stop if you really want me—”

“I do.”

“Then I’ll stop.” She pushes her sunglasses back up to hide her eyes. “Doesn’t help your case when you have your hands all over his familiar, though.”

Betty can’t help it. She bristles. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Claws in, Bettykins, you know I’m not one to slutshame. _And_ I’m not saying anything’s going on,” she adds, before Betty can spit. “Just—people don’t generally touch each other’s familiars unless they’re—close.”

Betty frowns. “Me and Jughead are close.”

“Don’t be deliberately obtuse, Betty.” Veronica turns her face to the hedges, somehow, artfully, keeping her balance on the soft grass with her stiletto heels. “Mami and I are close, but I would never touch Armando. It’s like—I don’t know. It’s a thing.”

“Jughead’s never said anything.” And he would, she’s sure, if it were something that bothered him. He’s never been quiet about things like that before. “Maybe it’s different with the Circle.”

“Maybe,” says Veronica. Her voice says, _I doubt it._ “Just—be prepared for Church witches to—think things. About you and Jughead. If they see that.”

“Things like what?”

“Ladies,” says Cheryl, and throws a look over her shoulder. “Whatever you’re talking about, can you cease? I’m trying to find something and you’re disturbing my focus.”

“What, exactly, are we out here for again?” Veronica puts a hand on her hip. “It’s hot.”

It’s barely sixty degrees—a cool day, even for September—but the sun is bright, and it’s beating down on their heads with whips. Sweat’s pooling at the nape of her neck, dribbling out of her tight ponytail. Betty shields her eyes, wishing she’d remembered to bring her sunglasses from her locker. They’ve stopped midway through the hedge maze, in a spot that seems to have nothing different in particular; the hedges are neatly trimmed around yet another piece of ugly garden statuary, a toddler-sized satyr on a broad, square base. The satyr is lifelike to the point of being grotesque, complete with goat feet, a set of perfectly crafted testicles, and what Betty presumes to be an uncircumcised penis. Cheryl rested her hands to her hips, cocking her head just so, hair falling like lava over her shoulder. She’s staring at the hedge, at the statue, as if looking for something. Betty has a sudden, hysterical image of having to jiggle the statue’s dick to open a secret passage, and has to cover her mouth to keep from laughing.

“Because I wanted to have this particular conversation _away_ from prying ears,” she says. “But for that, I need to—there it is.”

It is, thank everything good in the universe, not the satyr’s penis that Cheryl has to grab. It’s the hedge itself, though for a second Betty isn’t entirely certain what’s going on. Cheryl sweeps strands of long ivy out of the way, wedging her arm shoulder-deep in the fronds of the well-crafted bush, and then there’s a click. The statue spirals as if on a hinge, turning to the right, somehow not scraping at the gravel path. In the earth is a set of dark stone steps, no handrail. There is also no light. It looks, she thinks, like a pit to hell.

“Well,” says Veronica, and tips her glasses forward again. “Isn’t this appropriately macabre?”

“Don’t make it dreary,” says Cheryl, rolling her eyes. “Guests first.”

“Um, _heaven_ no.” Veronica raises a brow. “ _You_ first, Cheryl. How do we know you don’t have some hellhound bound up down there to eat intruders?”

“Please. Hellhounds are much too much trouble to keep properly, let alone _feed_ —”

“Will you both _stop_ ,” says Betty acidly. If she had her phone, she could use the flashlight. As it is, she just holds her hand out to Veronica. “Phone.”

“What?”

“Phone.”

“Oh.” Veronica digs around in her little purse, which hasn’t left her arm this whole time, and claps it into Betty’s palm. It’s a different, newer model than Betty’s had been, but it’s not hard to work out how to turn on the flashlight app.

Betty looks at Cheryl, whose arm is still stuck deep into the bush. “Nothing down here will eat me. Right?”

Cheryl’s lipstick looks like blood as she says, “Not if you’re nice.”

“Cheerful,” says Betty, and starts down the stairs. Veronica, with another muttered curse, follows after. They have to wait a few steps down for Cheryl, who joins them without a word as the statue grinds back into place over their heads.

There are exactly seventy-seven steps. She knows this because she counts, trying to calculate how deep this staircase has been carved. The passage is so narrow there’s no way for Cheryl to pass her to take lead. Betty has no idea how long they walk, only that it’s growing colder with each step; Veronica’s close against her back, her hand resting on Betty’s shoulder as if to keep track of her. The phone loses reception about halfway down, though the flashlight never stops its steady glow. It’s only just enough to illuminate the next few steps, and the stone walls of the passage, which grow slicker with what seems to be water the deeper they go. Out of curiosity, Betty traces her fingers along the wall, and sniffs her fingers. There’s no scent, but when she looks at her skin in the light of the phone, it’s streaked with rusty orange.

When they reach bottom, she’s shivering, and not just from cold. This place feels—it feels like a knife pressing into her flesh. This place gives her an awful feeling, a gut-deep shame. Something itches in her teeth, cold metal, blood and fear. Veronica slides her hand into Betty’s and holds on tight as Cheryl breezes past them both, into shadow, beyond the circle of light cast by the phone. Then—a click, like a lighter—and a candelabra begins to glow.

Cheryl lights one candle, and then another, and slowly, shadows fade. The room is made of stone, just like the walls and the stairs, and as Cheryl carries the candelabra around, lighting more candles set at regular sconces along the wall, Betty begins to see color. This place is hung with what looks like old tapestries, all different hues of red and depicting things she can’t quite make out. Lines of red stone have been set into the floor in a geometric pattern, triangles encased in circles. Veronica hisses, and scoots her toes away from the edge of the red pattern.

“You brought us _here_?”

Betty looks to Veronica. “Where’s here?”

“This is a casting space.” Veronica’s pale. Her throat works, audibly. “For—for big magicks. Sacrifices. That kind of thing. Can’t you feel it?”

Betty wishes, abruptly, that she had a free hand. With the phone in one, and Veronica’s hand in the other, she can’t clutch at the pentacle. “Are you serious?”

“Oh, please.” Cheryl lights another candle in its sconce. They’re all made of black wax. “Nobody’s used this casting space in centuries. I don’t think my mother even remembers how to get in. You’ll get used to it.”

 _It feels evil._ She almost says it. Betty squeezes Veronica’s hand tight, and refuses to consider that her fingers might be shaking.

“So?” Cheryl rests the candelabra back to—wherever it had been. Something that can be called nothing else but an _altar_ , shining black stone carved with markings that are giving Betty a headache if she stares too long. There’s spatters of red wax on its surface, dusty but bright all the same. “ _You’ve_ been keeping secrets, Betty Cooper.”

Veronica’s nails bite into Betty’s hand.

“So have you,” Betty says, after a long moment. Cheryl props her hands to the altar, her hips; she leans back against it, crossing her legs at the ankle.

“ _I_ wasn’t baptized in the False God’s church. _I_ don’t hide in a family of mortals like a cuckoo bird, waiting to eat the rest of its young.” She tips her head. “Do they know?”

“That I’m a witch?” It still tastes like salt on her tongue, like a salve and a drug at once. “No. My dad teaches Sunday school, you think he’d take it well? He barely lets me out of the house as it is.”

“Hm.” Cheryl taps her forefinger to her chin, thoughtful. “Not even your precious Polly?”

Betty bites her tongue. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

“Like what?” says Cheryl. Her eyes go flat, glassy. “Jay-Jay was going to give up _everything_ for your sister. His place in the Church of Night, his heritage as a Blossom. _Everything._ ” She grips the edge of the altar. “Including me. So I think I can talk about your mortal cow of a sister however the heaven I want to.”

Veronica digs her nails in deep enough to pinch. Betty sucks in air, in through her mouth, out through her nose, trying to keep her temper. She won’t—will not—let Cheryl know she’s hitting sore spots. There’s no damn point to it.

“Polly knew I could—do things.” She keeps her voice flat. “She didn’t know what I was. _I_ didn’t know what I was.”

“Is she like you?” Cheryl says. “Is she a half-breed?”

Betty shakes her head. They’d tried, after Betty had started being able to move things. Polly had tried _so hard_ to pick things up with her mind. But she’d never been able to, and she’d never held it against Betty, either. “No.”

Cheryl drums her nails against the edge of the altar.

“Is this why you invited me?” Betty tucks Veronica’s phone into the back pocket of her overalls. “To interrogate me about things I don’t even know about?”

“You truly didn’t know?” Cheryl leans forward. “Your birthright as a witch?”

“No,” says Betty, shortly. “I didn’t.”

“You never even _guessed_?” Cheryl’s lips curve. “Even when you were drawing winds to your command?”

“She said she didn’t know,” says Veronica. She still hasn’t let go of Betty’s hand, black nails nipping tight into Betty’s knuckles. “She doesn’t owe you any answers, Cheryl.”

“You needn’t get protective, _Sister_ Veronica.” Cheryl’s smile is a little like poison. “I’m simply asking a few questions. After all—I feel like I’m owed answers. _Especially_ after what happened to my brother and your sister.”

“Then you owe me answers, too,” says Betty. Cheryl’s eyes snap back to her, and there’s a flicker in them now, something like—like hope or fear. “You said—you said Jason was going to give up everything for Polly. That meant he really loved her.”

Cheryl moves, abruptly. She pulls away from the altar, stalks around it with her back to them, turning to stare at one of the many tapestries. They’re hellscapes, Betty realizes. There’s a woman being ripped apart by two demons, her head tipped back in agony. “Of course he did,” says Cheryl. Her voice has gone slightly brittle. “Do you think he’d give this up—give _me_ up—for anything less than _love_?”

She spits it out like it’s venom.

“So—” Betty wets dry lips. “They were really going to run away together, then.”

“I wasn’t privy to his plan,” says Cheryl. She still has her back turned. “All he asked me to do was row him across the river and say he’d fallen into the water. He was going—” She stops. “He promised he’d come back and get me, once everything was settled.”

“Where was he going?”

“He never said.”

 _Damn it_. Betty squeezes Veronica’s fingers, hard enough to make her bones ache. “Cheryl—”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Cheryl snaps, and whirls, her hair flaring out around her. “Do you have any idea what it feels like to have your heart ripped out of you? _Do you_? Because _I_ do. That day in Pop’s, _I felt him die._ My brother was _everything to me_ , and because of your sister he’s _dead_ and _I felt them kill him._ It _ripped my magic out of me_ and I have no idea who did it or why but I just know that he’s gone and now I have _nothing_. So stop acting like such a little bitch and _answer me_.”

The candle sconces are rattling. It’s Veronica, Betty thinks. She can feel ice and lightning, not the smoke of a volcano. She looks to Veronica, and squeezes her hand tighter. Veronica takes a breath, and slowly, the rattling ceases.

“I don’t know what I know,” says Betty. Suddenly, everything clatters into place in her head. Cheryl’s seizure in Pop’s really had been because of Jason _._ Because Jason was being murdered, and she’d _felt it_. Questions crawl up her throat. “I don’t know if I know any more than you.”

“Where’s Polly?”

“My parents won’t tell me.”

Cheryl’s lip curls. “You haven’t made them tell you?”

“I don’t force people to say things,” says Betty. Then she gnaws the inside of her cheek, because she’s—she doesn’t want to _make_ her parents say anything. But—it’s not like they’ve been respecting her boundaries lately anyway. “They say she’s sick, that Jason made her sick—”

Cheryl scoffs. “Jason would _never_ hurt someone he loved.”

Something taut in Betty’s gut begins to unwind. “How could you _feel him_ die?”

Cheryl looks away. “We—” She tucks her hair behind her ear. “Did you know that all Blossom women birth twins?”

Betty shakes her head.

“It’s part of our magic,” says Cheryl. “Blossom twins share everything. Our lives, our hearts, and our magic. Without Jason, I—I’m half of nothing. I can’t even light a candle.”

“So—you felt him—”

Cheryl turns her face to the wall again. “Every single stone.”

Her stomach churns.

“Cheryl,” says Veronica. With a look at Betty, she untangles their hands, and steps between, coming closer to Cheryl, slowly, like she’s approaching a wounded thing. She is, Betty thinks. Cheryl _is_ wounded. Cheryl skitters away, though, before Veronica can get too close. She turns her face, dabs at her eyes with the hem of her sleeve. When she looks at them again, her face is clean and pale, like she’d said nothing at all.

“I don’t want pity,” says Cheryl. “I want answers. And clearly you don’t have them. So I suppose I’ll have to wait for tomorrow.”

Betty fidgets. “Tomorrow?”

“We’re conducting a séance,” says Cheryl. “Myself and another witch from the Church of Night.” She eyes them both, Veronica for a beat longer. “You didn’t think I _just_ invited two witches for solidarity, did you? I told you that we could get up to something.”

“But a séance on the day of his memorial?” Veronica bites her lip. “That seems—I don’t know. That seems dangerous just for the sake of it.”

“If you think I’m going to bury my brother for the last time without trying to speak to him, then you’re stupider than I anticipated, Veronica Lodge.” Cheryl sweeps her hair over her shoulder. “That’s another reason why I wanted to come down here. Jay-Jay and I would play in here all the time. It’s the perfect place to try and summon him back.” She twines a lock of hair around her finger. “I’ve—been trying to call him, but he won’t—I thought having more witches around would help. And Mommy and Daddy would _never_ agree to help me.”

“What about Academy witches?”

Cheryl sniffs. “As if I’d ask _those_ succubitches. They’d likely bind him to some—awful contraption and use his ghost like a servant. No, you two are—unfortunately—my only options.”

Veronica blows her bangs out of her eyes.

“Jason is—” Betty says, and then stops herself. Her heart feels as though it’s curdling, bits dropping off. If she tells Cheryl about Jason’s ghost in the Sweetwater, then they’ll go hurtling off, and she has no idea what that could start. Besides—if she tells Cheryl that Jason’s appeared, to _her_ , not to Cheryl, Cheryl will—probably explode. Her nails bite into her palms. “Do you think he’ll show up?”

“He will,” says Cheryl, flatly. “He has to.”

Betty looks at the floor. Veronica—Veronica, who knows about Jason’s ghost in the river, about him appearing to Betty—keeps her mouth shut.

“You know, it’s funny,” says Cheryl. “I would have thought, before today, that _you’d_ be the next witch hunter we’d have to slaughter. Perfect Betty Cooper with her daddy in the false church and her mommy’s newspaper to direct attention elsewhere. But I suppose the Dark Lord does His work in strange ways.”

Something bubbles to her lips.

“Cheryl,” says Betty, slowly. “Did—did Jason ever say anything about Miss Grundy?”

Veronica hisses, low and soft. She sounds, Betty thinks, like Pyewacket. Cheryl’s gaze snaps back to her, and all at once her eyes are _burning_.

“Grundy?” She considers. “Grundy did an independent study with Jason. For cello. He was a talented musician, she offered to sponsor him in an individual tutoring program. Why?”

Betty opens her mouth, and shuts it again.

“ _Why_ ,” says Cheryl, dangerously. “What does _Grundy_ have to do with anything?”

“Maybe nothing,” says Betty. She darts a look at Veronica, and Veronica nods. “Only—we—um—”

“ _Spit it out_ ,” says Cheryl, and there’s suddenly a low, husky rattling. When Betty looks to the floor, she _shrieks._ A rattlesnake has wound its way out from beneath the altar, diamond-headed and tongue flickering out between its fangs. She scrambles back, only to have her elbow seized by Veronica, to keep her still. Cheryl bends, scoops up the snake— _oh my god_ —and lets it coil around her throat, its rattle still jittering against her jaw. It just be her familiar, and Betty can think of no better creature to be crafted by Cheryl Blossom’s magic, all venom and scales and seductive coils. “Or I’ll set Belial on you, _Cooper_.”

“Grundy’s abusing mortal boys,” says Veronica. “We’re dealing with it.”

“Abusing?”

“Raping,” says Betty. “She’s raping mortal boys.”

Cheryl’s eyes flicker. She shuts her eyes for a time.

“No,” she says, after a moment.

“Cheryl—”

“Jason would have said something,” says Cheryl. “Jason would— _never_ be injured by a mortal. Never—” She takes a breath. “You’re wrong. Whatever information you have is incorrect. Jason was not— _ever._ ”

Her throat works, and her voice stutters away. The rattlesnake around her neck winds tighter, and tucks its head away beneath her hair.

“Okay,” says Veronica, almost too gentle. She looks back at Betty, and then steps close to Cheryl again. This time, when she reaches out, Cheryl doesn’t dart away. Veronica strokes her hair, her back, and says again, softly: “Okay.”

Cheryl doesn’t say anything more.

“We’re dealing with it.” Betty tucks her hands into her overall pockets. “Like I said. Just—I wanted to ask. To make sure.”

Cheryl nods. Veronica catches Betty’s eye and slowly shakes her head. _Don’t push harder._ And yeah, Betty knows that. Whatever—relationship—there had been between Jason and Grundy, whether it had been abuser and survivor or something—else—Cheryl likely had no idea about it. For all Cheryl could hide away, the shock in her face at the very suggestion had been real. She hadn’t had a clue what Betty was talking about.

“We’re—planning to deal with Grundy during the memorial,” says Betty, slowly. “Will that—make things difficult with the séance?”

“We’re conducting the séance before dawn.” Cheryl strokes her fingers along the rattlesnake’s head. “So—no. So long as you’re careful. I’d be wary, though. Mommy and Daddy don’t take well to—foreign magic being conducted in our house.”

“Understood,” says Betty. “It won’t be anything too dramatic. Just—a little loud.”

Cheryl shrugs. “This—ceremony—isn’t for Jay-Jay anyway. It’s just—for the mortals.” She takes a breath. “For the _show_. So—he’d likely—enjoy—you doing something like that, in front of all of them.” She shuts her eyes, and says, “He’d like to see it.”

Betty has no clue what to say that. She keeps her mouth shut tight.

“Hey.” Veronica puts an arm around Cheryl, and ignores the slow hiss of the rattlesnake around her neck. “How about we get out of this cave, yeah? We can sit in the garden for a while like you wanted.”

Cheryl, to Betty’s immense surprise, nods. She leans her head into Veronica’s shoulder, the way she had after the pep rally, not crying, just—sighing, almost like a little girl, leaning into affection like she craves it. Betty’s _never_ seen Cheryl like this, and she’s almost not sure what to make of it. “All right.”

“Betty?” Veronica looks up at her. “You mind leading the way?”

“Yeah,” says Betty. She hesitates, and then reaches out, and pinches the air. All at once, the candles go out. When she takes the phone out of her pocket, turns the flashlight back on, Cheryl’s eyes glimmer with the light. “Let’s head back.”


	21. Roses Have Wicked Thorns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jughead returns home. Betty's time at Thornhill becomes more complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Discussion of alcoholism and drunkenness, parental neglect, Very Tense Discussions between Jughead and FP; depictions of drinking and smoking; mentions of incestuous intermarriage (thanks, Blossoms); mentions of Grundy manipulating Archie; vague description of Alzheimer's symptoms (timeslipping, lack of focus, sudden coherence then sudden incoherence, etc); some mentions of panic attacks and description of Betty's self-harm habit with her fingernails; mentions of mortuaries/dead bodies. 
> 
> hehehehehehehehheehehehe i cried happy tears in this chapter man

Jughead sits on the steps into the Jones’ trailer, and watches Hog Eye smoke.

The trailer across from theirs has been rented by Hog Eye and his wife since before Jughead was born. This whole section of Sunnyside Trailer Park is taken up by Serpents; Tall Boy kitty corner to them and three trailers down; Fangs Fogarty a row over. The Topazes are a few trailers down in the row behind. He remembers that he wondered, as a kid, why so many of his dad’s friends were living so close. Now he knows it’d been planned; that Sunnyside had been bought and rented from _because_ it was so easy to hide magic in a place like this. Nobody likes to look at a trailer park, especially not North Siders. Nobody likes to remember that poverty exists, and coating it in shit is the easiest away to hide something magical.

FP’s bike hadn’t been at the Wyrm. It’s not at the trailer, either. He’d texted Toni again, after he’d finally left the Spellmans’—hours after he’d originally thought he would, and only after a spectacularly terrifying interrogation by not one but _three_ very confused witches—and Toni had confirmed, FP isn’t in the bar, and there’s no job laid out for him. Which means, Jughead thinks, that FP is at the liquor store, and it should only be a little while to wait. He looks at his phone again—aside from Veronica’s most likely highly begrudged text of _we’re off to Cheryl’s, don’t wait up_ , there’s nothing new—and shoves it back into his pocket.

 ** _You could text him, you know._** Razz, under the stairs, sounds muffled. She’s rooting for worms, he thinks. Or just investigating the protective circles around the trailer to make sure they haven’t been damaged. **_It’s not like he ignores if you text._**

“Like that worked so well last time.”

Grouchily, Razz says, **_Yes, well. We’re here now._**

“We’re here now,” says Jughead, and tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket. It’s not actually cold enough for him to _need_ his jacket, but he likes it anyway. There’s no patch on it, and in this part of the trailer park, that’s a symbol in and of itself. “So we just have to wait.”

Razz huffs again, and goes back to digging. She’s been in a bit of a mood all day, ever since he told her she wasn’t allowed to come into the Spellman house with him. The last thing he’d wanted to worry about was some Church of Night witch getting her hands on his familiar, and Razz _knows_ it’d been safer for her to hide away, but she doesn’t like being separated from him. She’s been alternating between fussy and irritable ever since he left Greendale, and gone to pick her up in the woods.

Toni had ditched about half an hour into all of it. Well, ditched is the wrong word—she’d had things to do—but he has a feeling she would have left even if she _hadn’t_ technically had to go on errands. Hanging around Greendale witches is never high on Toni’s to-do list, and even though he’s not technically a full member of the Circle yet, he can still take care of himself. Besides, he’d invoked his father, _and_ the Witches’ Accord. If they’d tried to touch him after that, the Spellmans would have been fricasseed by their own coven.

He’s sure they hated him, them in their pretty, quiet Victorian house in pretty, quiet Greendale. The eldest of them, Zelda, had certainly hated him. She’d walked in midway through the first conversation, dropped six bags of groceries, and demanded they start again from the beginning. He can take care of himself, he thinks, but something about her had made him think she could rip him apart without lifting a finger, so he’d started again. And then again, because Hilda, the one who’d made tea and shortbread and insisted he eat it, had had questions. Half the time he’d been there, he’d been sitting in the kitchen waiting for the sisters to stop bickering in another room—Hilda, apparently, had learned about Betty’s existence, but had said nothing to anyone. The flirty warlock, Ambrose, had swanned in and out of the kitchen to keep an eye on him, barefooted and itching for something to do. Jughead had kept his eyes on his plate, for the most part, and answered questions when directed at him. The only thing he could do, really, was point out that Betty had never met them; that he knew her, and he would keep her safe, even if she chooses to stay in Riverdale.

“Well,” Zelda had said, sarcastically, and lit a cigarette to blow the smoke in his eyes. “Thank _Satan_ for that.”

They’d come away with an uneasy peace. Hilda had already been planning to attend the memorial at Thornhill; now, Jughead would be bringing Zelda Spellman as his plus-one. They would only see Betty with him, at first—even if Betty isn’t a member of the Circle, she’s under the Circle’s protection just from spending time with him; he is _not_ letting her stay with Satanists without being there to help, not even if they swear in blood not to hurt her—but they _will_ see her. Hilda, and Zelda, and Ambrose, and Sabrina, an apparent—cousin or sister or _something_ that also lived in the mortuary, though she’d been absent for most of this discussion. He’s just—going to have to find a way to warn Betty about it before the Spellman sisters show up out of the blue.

There’s a lot of things he has to warn Betty about, he thinks. Most notably that the Spellmans seem to be the kind of witch family that _clings._ Witches either count their bonds in the coven, or in the blood, and the Spellmans seem to count the blood as higher than anything but their promise to Satan. Once Betty accepts this family, he thinks, once she meets them, they will _never_ let her go. She needs to be completely clear on that, before she makes her choice.

He’d been there all day, in the end. A blonde teenage witch had passed him on her way into the mortuary, when he’d left to make his way back to Fox Forest. She’d given him the funniest look, like she’d seen something layered over him, another person or another time. The mysterious Sabrina, he supposes. Maybe Betty will like it, having aunts, cousins. Maybe she’d move out here, to Greendale. Get away from her parents and stay with this witch family.

Something uneasy and greedy coils in his gut.

The purr of FP’s motorbike jerks him out of reminiscing. He’d been out grocery shopping, Jughead thinks. He’s not wearing the Serpent jacket, just the beat-up leather thing that he only uses when he wants to be unobtrusive. FP takes the bike helmet off, scuffs a hand through his hair, and then hangs the helmet on the handles. “Boy,” he says, and swings off the bike. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, Jughead thinks. Maybe a week. His eyes are bloodshot. “What’re you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you,” says Jughead. Razz scrabbles at his pant leg. Jughead bends, picks her up, and puts her back in his pocket before his dad can say anything. “I texted you.”

“Right.” FP sways a little. He’s drunk, Jughead realizes, and his heart sinks. FP won’t remember a word of this. “Right. Well—come on in, kid. Sit down, take a load off.”

“Dad, we’ve talked about you biking when you’re—”

“I’m fine.” FP waves it off, and makes it up the stairs without much fuss. Then again, he’s always been good at hiding how drunk he really is. “Didn’t hit anything, and it’s not like people drive around at midday anyway. Inside, boy. We don’t need to air our business for the neighbors.”

Jughead shoves his hands deep into his pockets. In the inner pocket of his jacket, Razz snorts, derisively. She doesn’t say anything else.

The inside of the trailer looks as though a giant has taken hold of it, ripped it out of the ground, shaken it around, and then put it back where it was. The couch bed is unfolded, but that’s about the only thing that seems normal. There are bottles and cans everywhere—FP knocks one over as he makes his way into the kitchen with his grocery bags—and newspapers litter the small dining table, which now has what looks like a bullet hole in one of the legs. Jughead touches the hole with two fingers.

“Why aren’t you in school?” FP keeps his back to Jughead, loading the beer into an empty fridge before tossing boxes of macaroni into the cabinet. “Figured you’d be learning, with you wanting to stay in mortal school so bad.”

“I needed to talk to you,” Jughead says again. “I texted you.”

“Yeah, things happened.” FP shuts the fridge, and takes one of the microwaveable mac and cheese bowls out of the container. Kraft cheese dust hits the counter. “Shit.”

“I can—”

“I can make my own damn noodles,” says FP, and attempts to wipe the cheese dust off the plastic countertop. He only succeeds in getting it onto his jeans. Jughead grinds his teeth hard enough for something to crack in the back of his mouth. A dull ache pounds through the bone of his jaw. “Well?”

“What?”

“What’d you come to say?” FP still hasn’t looked him full in the face. “You said you had something to tell me, so tell me.”

Jughead hesitates.

 ** _You can always write him a note later,_** Razz says, softly. **_If you’re worried he won’t remember_**.

“Well?” says FP.

“There’s a girl,” says Jughead. Then: “At school. You don’t know her.” Which is true. FP’s never actually met Betty. He’s never heard her name. Or, at least, he has, but he doesn’t remember it. “She’s a witch.”

FP focuses in, then. His eyes plant themselves to Jughead’s face. Then he shifts, just a little. He’s still drunk, still unshaven, but he’s sharper, now. He’s the leader of the Circle, of the Serpents. He searches Jughead’s eyes, and then, carefully, points at the dining table.

“Sit.”

Jughead sits. FP finds a water bottle under the sink, puts it on the table, and brings his mac and cheese over to sit across from him. The smell of it, cigarettes and beer and old dishes in the sink and freshly microwaved Kraft cheese, makes Jughead’s stomach churn.

“Talk,” says FP, and Jughead does. He outlines it in short, clear sentences, the story he can tell his father, the one that he can say. Not _the girl I’ve known for a decade is a half-witch_ , but _a girl in my class is a half-witch_. Not _she’s a Cooper_ , but _Thomas and Lavender think she’s a Spellman._ Not _she’s friends with Veronica Lodge,_ but _I went to Greendale today to let the Spellmans know she’s here._ And definitely not _she’s one of two reasons I chose to stay in mortal high school._ Not _her and Archie are my only friends._ And not _the girl I’ve had a crush on since fourth grade is a witch, and I have no idea what to do._

Razz, in his pocket, puts her little paws to his heart as best she can. Jughead pretends it’s not beating in his throat.

FP listens, carefully, to what Jughead says and what he doesn’t. He’s just drunk enough that he probably misses some of the longer pauses, which is a godsend. FP sober—as rare as it is—is FP sharp, and a sharp FP would _not_ miss what Jughead is leaving out.

“Should’ve told me about the Spellmans before you went, boy,” says FP, finally. He leans forward, out of his chair, and makes his way to the fridge. Jughead watches him grab a can of beer with a knot under his ribcage, squeezing tighter. His tooth throbs, uncomfortably. “Should’ve been with you.”

“Toni was with me.” He hesitates again. “I told Thomas I was going. I tried to get in contact.”

For a second, Jughead thinks FP will lose his temper. FP cracks the beer, and sits down again, leaning back and letting his eyes flicker half-closed at the first sip. Then: “I want to meet her.”

Jughead bites the inside of his cheek, his sore, cracked tooth pounding now, like a goblin has crept into his mouth and is pulling the molar apart with long, needle fingers. “She doesn’t know what she wants to do, Dad. She might not want to be a Serpent.”

“She’s not alone, is she?”

“No, I’m—I’m watching her. I gave her my pentacle to keep her magic under control.” He hesitates again. “Thomas asked Joaquin to teach her.”

“Joaquin?” FP’s eyes narrow. “Ah. Makes sense.”

“What does?”

“Something Thomas said.” FP puts his beer can on the table. “Well. That’s it, then.”

Razz, in Jughead’s pocket, hisses audibly.

“What’s it?” says Jughead, trying to keep his voice even. He doesn’t succeed well. The words crack right through. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” FP shrugs. “You should’ve told me earlier, ‘sall.”

“I _tried_ ,” says Jughead. He feels like he’s said it a thousand times. “I tried to reach you, Dad. I—didn’t know where you were.”

“Working,” says FP. He eyes Jughead. “Which clearly you don’t want to be a part of.”

“Me not wanting to be in the Serpents doesn’t mean I don’t _worry_ ,” Jughead says, a little desperately. He jerks up. “I don’t—I don’t want to talk about this with you right now, Dad.”

“Why not?” FP lifts his beer can. “I’m here, you’re here. Let’s talk.”

“Dad, no, you’re—”

“I’m what?”

The air feels—dangerous. Jughead takes a breath, eases back. “Nothing,” he says, after a moment. “Just—I haven’t—changed my mind about what I want.”

“You want the Circle, but not the Serpents.” FP stares at him, focused, and magic boils in the air. “You don’t get to be that picky, boy. You think I wanted this?”

“I don’t know, Dad, sometimes you act—”

“—like what?”

Razz, softly, says, **_Don’t, Jughead._**

It rests on his lips. _Sometimes you act like I’m only a legacy. Sometimes it feels like you only give a shit because I’m the next Serpent King. Sometimes I feel like I don’t matter enough for you to stop drinking or stop hurting people or stop bringing drugs into this town that is ours, that’s supposed to be ours, the only safe place we have._ “Nothing,” says Jughead, and swallows it back. “I’m—I have to go. I have to get to school.”

FP barks out a laugh, loud and sharp. Then: “You always got a place here, boy. Even if you turn your back on the rest of us.”

Jughead slams the door to the trailer shut. Razz, against his heart, coils into a tight ball, and the spines prick through the fabric into his skin, little points of pain that will never go away. They’re bone deep, he thinks. Magic deep, in his flesh, in his soul.

 _You always got a place here, boy_.

.

.

.

 ** _Everything in this house smells funny_** , says Ell, and rests his head on Betty’s legs. **_Not bad, just—funny._**

Betty runs her hand over his long ears. Ell had turned up in the gardens an hour or two before dinnertime, and she’d almost fainted with relief; she doesn’t think she could have gotten through the truly terrifying dinner with Penelope and Clifford Blossom without him. He’d sat by her side with his head on her lap throughout dinner, even as Penelope and Cliff picked at Veronica with questions and pretended Betty didn’t exist at all. It’d been a relief to escape upstairs to Cheryl’s room, which is just as girly as Cheryl had promised, all lace and sheer silks. Veronica and Cheryl are wearing what is, perhaps, the most heart-stopping pair of teddies Betty has ever seen, even in magazines. She can’t quite look at either of them, especially not at Cheryl, who has no right to be as pretty as she is. Veronica is—for some reason Veronica impacts her less, whether it’s because Veronica is supposed to be her triad sister (which Betty still has _no_ idea how to take) or because Veronica has been around for less time. Either way, it’s flustering, especially when they both look at _her_ funny for wearing pajama pants and a T-shirt to bed. Like _she’s_ the one who’s being risqué or strange.

 _Teddies,_ she thinks, watching Veronica and Cheryl talk quietly at the end of the bed, _should be outlawed._

“What’s funny?” she says, keeping her voice low, and strokes Ell’s ears again. He shuffles a little, and tucks his nose under the fabric of her wool sweater. “Just—everything?”

 ** _Hm._** He noses deeper under her sweater. **_It’s just funny. It’s pushing at me. Like it wants to sap some of your magic out of me, almost. I won’t let it_** , he adds, when Betty’s hand stills on the back of his neck. **_I can keep us both safe, but it’s just like—their magic wants to eat us. That’s how it feels here._**

That’s…not pleasant to hear. Betty hasn’t been feeling much of anything from Thornhill, aside from when they’d been in the casting space. Then again, she hadn’t gone _into_ Thornhill without Ell; maybe he’s been shielding her from it. “If you want,” she says, “we can go.”

 ** _I’m okay._** He reshuffles, though, trying to crawl all the way into her lap, like a baby. She’s had him for less than twenty-four hours, and she doesn’t even really remember what it’s like to _not_ have Ell. Even if he’s heavy. **_I like Cheryl._**

“You do?”

 ** _Yeah._** He licks at the skin over her hip, and then says, **_She just spits a lot like a snake, I think. Her magic isn’t trying to eat us, and she doesn’t seem like a bad person._**

Cheryl is _fascinated_ with Ell. She hadn’t screamed when Ell had turned up out of the blue. She’d looked at Betty like something very inherent in the universe had transformed, and then said, _Your familiar is beautiful_ , in a way that had been surprisingly awed. Betty ruffles Ell’s fur, and then says, “You just like her cause she thinks you’re pretty.”

Ell’s tail goes _toc-toc_ on the bedspread, and makes a happy noise when she scritches behind his ear. **_Other people screamed._**

“Jughead didn’t scream.”

 ** _Witchboy’s different._** Ell huffs. **_He knew I’d be like this before I came, I think._**

“Yeah?” says Betty, surprisingly touched. She’s not sure if Ell’s right, but if Jughead had guessed—something warm and pleased flushes all over her, right through to the tips of her fingers. “You do?”

**_He didn’t smell surprised, anyway. Not like Veronica and Hermione._ **

“Veronica said sorry.”

 ** _Cheryl didn’t scream._** He lifts his head. **_Do I look scary?_**

“No,” says Betty, softly. “No, Ell. You’re just you. People just—don’t expect you with _me_ , I think. That’s all.”

Something squeezes in her chest.

 ** _Well, that’s stupid,_** Ell says, and then sneezes right in her face. Betty wipes her eyes clean, and scowls at him. Instead of repenting, he lets his tongue loll out the side of his mouth. **_Anyway, I like her._**

“You’re shallower than I expected,” says Betty, and ruffles his fur again. “Come on, pretty boy. Get off me. I want to call Jughead.”

Cheryl’s head pops up like a gopher. A really sexy, long-haired, perturbed gopher. “You’re not bringing him here, are you? I thought I informed you—”

“Calm down, Cheryl, we’re just going on a walk so I can call him.” Betty hesitates, darts a glance at Veronica. “If it’s cool for me to borrow your phone?”

“Yeah, sure, it’s in my bag.” Veronica gives her a _long_ look. Pyewacket—who had turned up at some point, Betty’s not sure when—curls his tail around Betty’s calf, and then away again, and Betty swallows at the _look_ Cheryl gives them when she sees it. Maybe Veronica hadn’t been exaggerating about the _nobody touches each other’s familiar_ thing. But Veronica is—Veronica had _invited_ Betty to pet Pyewacket. Because they’re in a triad, Betty thinks, and her stomach drops again. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” says Betty. “I just want to make sure he got back okay.”

“Got back from where?” says Cheryl, and leans back on her palms. “You’ve both been very mysterious today.”

“He was in Greendale for the Serpents,” says Betty. It’s not a lie, but it’s not truth, either. She _refuses_ to feel bad about it, though. Cheryl is still an unknown quantity, even if Ell likes her. She digs through Veronica’s bag, and extracts the phone. “I’m going to sit in the garden, okay?”

“Stay out of the east wing,” says Cheryl.

“I know,” Betty says. “I will, I promise.” _It’s not like I want to go snooping without Jughead anyway_.

Cheryl eyes her for a moment longer. Then she turns back to look at Veronica. “I thought we were painting nails.”

Veronica rolls her eyes at Betty, and returns to the amateur manicure.

The temperature’s dropped by twenty degrees, easily. Her breath is starting to mist up in front of her face when she tucks her wool sweater closer around herself, wishing she’d remembered a coat. There’s a small stone bench near the French doors from the garden into what Cheryl had referred to as the _game room_ —whatever that’s supposed to mean, there’s just a pool table in there and it’s easy for Betty to find—so she takes that spot, back to some rosebushes, while Ell immediately begins to zoom back and forth in the grass, sniffing everything he can get his nose into. Betty unlocks Veronica’s phone—not difficult, considering she’s literally made it _6666_ , supposedly for quick photography needs—and then taps out a text to Jughead. Honestly, she’s surprised he’s even in Veronica’s phone. _Hi, it’s Betty, just wanted to make sure everything went okay today._ For a second, there’s nothing; then:

 _jughead(_ 🐍⚪🤴 _): hey_

 _jughead (_ 🐍⚪🤴 _): can i call_

 _jughead (_ 🐍⚪🤴 _): ?_

Betty looks at the phone for a moment, at the emojis beside Jughead’s name. Then she fumbles around, and hits call. It’s been a long day, she thinks. She’s only anxious because she’s tired, and because being in Thornhill makes her itch. 

When Jughead picks up, the line crackles a little. Then: “Hey.”

“Hi.” Betty tucks her hair behind her ear—she’d let it down from its ponytail a few hours ago, after dinner, tired of the tension in her neck and scalp—and resettles on the bench. “Hey.”

“You okay?” It sounds a little like he’s holding his phone too close to his mouth. That, or he’s crammed into a too-small bed and the sheets are tangled near the speaker. She wonders where he is. It’s almost midnight. “You sound tired.”

“Yeah.” Betty folds the sweater closer around herself. Ell crawls deeper into the bushes, and then says, happily: **_Betty, there are frogs!_** “I don’t know, it’s—weird here. You’re not in the tree house, are you?”

“No, I ran into Archie at Pop’s, he’s letting me sleep on his floor tonight.”

Oh. “Does he know? About—you.”

Jughead snorts. “He knows I skipped school today because I fought with my dad. Is that what you’re asking?”

“Yeah, I guess.” It’s a good enough cover story, she supposes. “Um, I can hang up if—”

“No, it’s fine.” There’s a rumble of sound, Archie’s voice, muffled. Probably asking who Jughead’s talking to. “One sec,” says Jughead, and then there’s more muffled voices. Betty listens, feeling odd. Jughead is staying with Archie, and Archie will now know that Betty’s calling Jughead to talk at—almost midnight. Because why would Jughead keep that from Archie? There’s no reason. They’re _friends_. They can talk.

 _You’re letting Kevin and Veronica get to you, girl_ , she tells herself. Archie won’t think anything of it. Neither will Jughead. Not like she wants _either_ of them to think of _anything_ about this, because she’s _done_ with Archie and wanting Archie and chasing after someone who doesn’t want her back, and because she and Jughead just—aren’t like that. Jughead doesn’t like people that way, anyway, and even if he did, he’d probably like someone much—grittier than her. And much more witchy. Like Toni, maybe. Or Fangs, with the switchblade twinkling between his fingers in the Wyrm.

She shies away from that idea, unsure what to make of it.

Thinking of Kevin makes her think of something else, though. Betty sets her teeth in her lower lip, and starts to consider.

“Okay,” says Jughead, after a minute. The echoes have changed on the other end of the line. She wonders if he’s in the Andrews’ living room, or sitting on the stairs, or something. “Sorry. He’s half asleep, I didn’t want to wake him up.”

“Yeah, sure.” She swallows. “Is he doing okay?”

“You mean with her?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know. We haven’t talked about it.”

“Yeah.” She can’t imagine Archie _wants_ to talk about it, after everything. She and Jughead have both made it clear that they don’t like Grundy, and Archie’s bullheaded. When he feels like he’s right and people are arguing with him just to argue, he digs in and won’t listen to anything anyone says. And she’s sure Grundy is feeding into it in her own way. Telling him they’re not his real friends, that if they really were his friends they’d be _happy_ for him being with someone. Betty crosses her arm firmly over her stomach to try and stop it cramping.

“What’s it like there?” Jughead’s keeping his voice soft, like he’s trying not to be overheard. “At Thornhill?”

“Not—great.” She kicks a stone. “Ell says that the magic is like—pulling at him in a way I don’t like. I don’t feel it, but—”

“Familiars are more attuned to stuff like that than we are,” says Jughead. “Even if you weren’t wearing the pentacle you probably wouldn’t feel it the way he does. Doesn’t make it any less like _The Conjuring_ , though.”

That’s a relief, in a weird way. She lets out a breath. “Okay.”

“Nobody’s tried to cannibalize you, have they?”

“No, but Cheryl made a _really_ gross joke about liver at the dinner table just to see me flinch.” She’d been delighted about it, too. She’s pretty sure Cheryl will hold that over her head for _eternity_. “You’re the one that sounds tired. Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” He hesitates, lets out a breath. “It—took longer than I thought it would to get the Spellmans to agree to wait before coming to see you at the memorial tomorrow.”

Betty scuffs the heel of her shoe along the gravel. She twists her fingers into the chain of the necklace as she says, “How did they take it?”

“Me saying I was there on your behalf?” His voice goes wry. “Fantastically. I think they wanted to hang me up from the trees in their front yard and skin me alive.”

“Oh, _that_ makes me feel better.”

Jughead blows out air again. “Sorry, I’m—sorry. I saw my dad today, and it’s—it left me on edge, that’s all.”

 ** _Betty!_** Ell wiggles out from underneath the bush. **_Look, I caught a frog._**

“Put the frog down, Ell,” Betty says. “Don’t eat the frog, it might be toxic or something.”

“Familiars are pretty tough,” Jughead says, amused. “He’ll be fine.”

“The frog has its own little life,” says Betty. “Let the frog go.” Then, to Jughead: “What happened with your dad? What did FP say?”

Jughead’s quiet for a long time. As Betty watches, Ell very delicately lowers his head to the ground and opens his mouth, so the frog can leap away unharmed. When he comes over to put his head in Betty’s lap, Betty goes back to stroking his ears. Ell has very round, expressive ears that are always flickering back and forth with the sounds he’s picking up, and he _always_ leans into it when she scritches. Static rushes over the phone again. “I don’t know.”

Betty’s quiet. She pets Ell, and waits.

“I mean—I told him about you.” He stops. “I told him some of it, anyway, I—I mean, you’re not a part of the Circle, you don’t—you haven’t decided yet, and that means it’s not his business, I just—I didn’t know what to say. Like—I never—”

Jughead’s voice peters out.

“You don’t have to tell me anymore,” Betty says, trying to keep her voice soft. “It’s okay.”

“I don’t know.” She can almost picture him rubbing his nose, hard enough that it turns red. “He was drunk. I don’t know how much he’ll remember about any of it.”

Another piece slots into place in her head. Things she didn’t know but make sense, the jigsaw that is Jughead’s life. Things she somehow never worked out, or never noticed. What he’d said in her room, that night. _You try to fix things, Betty. You always do. And it’s—it’s a good quality most of the time, but believe me when I tell you that my family’s not something that you can fix._ She holds tighter to the phone. “Does he get drunk often?”

“That’s like asking if he breathes,” says Jughead, and then he dances away from it again, the reality of it. “I think he’ll remember. He said he wanted to meet you.”

“Yeah?”

“I told him no. I don’t—want him to try and convince you to join the Serpents if you don’t want.” He hesitates. “I—I don’t know if that’s what you wanted.”

Betty scuffs her shoe again. “I—appreciate that. I—I don’t know what I want. I know we haven’t really talked about it, y’know, my—plan, for the Spellmans, and the Circle, I just—don’t really know what I want to do. I feel like things are changing really quickly and I don’t have all the information I need, still.” She’s not entirely sure she’s on board with any kind of Satanic coven, though, if they’re anything like Thornhill. “I’m sorry, that’s not a great answer.”

“No, it’s fine.” He hums. “It makes sense.”

“But I do want to meet your dad, Juggie. At some point.” She swallows. “I feel like I should, especially after meeting Thomas.”

Jughead’s quiet. After a time, he says, “Yeah, maybe.”

Betty bends her head, touches her brow to the space between Ell’s ears. He still smells fresh and green and wild, like the woods, and it helps the tightness in her lungs ease, the anxiety drop slowly away from her stomach. ““What were they like? The Spellmans.”

“They were—interesting. I don’t know. There are two older witches, their names are Zelda and Hilda. A younger warlock, his name was Ambrose. I don’t know what he was doing there, but he seemed to just kind of—hang around. And another cousin around our age named Sabrina, I think.”

“So mostly women?”

“Yeah.” He pauses again, weighing the silence. “Hilda—Hilda knew about you.”

And there’s the knot again, right back in her stomach. “What?”

“I didn’t get all the details. I get the feeling she learned recently, or something. She asked a lot of questions about you and your parents and about Polly, and at one point she said something about a cousin named Mortimer, though they wouldn’t talk about him when I was there. Said it was family business and they wanted to talk to you about it, first.”

 _Mortimer._ She swallows. “But—how could she know about me if _I_ didn’t even—”

“I don’t know, Betts. They didn’t trust me enough to tell me.”

“I’m—I’m not mad at you, Juggie. I’m sorry, I’m just—” She cups her hand to the underside of Ell’s jaw, and then sits up again. “Cheryl said some stuff about Jason, and—and I didn’t expect them to know about me already, so it’s—it’s been a really long day.”

“No, I’m not—” He cuts himself off. “Sorry. I’m not mad at you either.”

She stares at the toes of her shoes.

“Betty,” says Jughead, softly. “Seriously. You’re handling this better than I think anyone else I know could be. Everything is upside down and backwards for you right now and you haven’t freaked out yet. You don’t have to apologize to me.”

“I freaked out in the forest.”

“You reacted to something you had no control over and no understanding of in a very normal way,” he says, softly. “That’s different from freaking out.”

Her eyes burn. Betty wipes the corners of them with the edge of her sleeve, and then stands, makes her way to the flowers that Ell had been sniffing at. They’re dark red roses, a deep, bloody red that she’s sure can’t be natural; maybe the Blossoms crossbred them, she thinks, or maybe it’s something to do with the magic on the property, but they’re beautiful and strange and haunting in a way that she’s sure she’s never going to forget. She swallows, hard. “I’m sorry.”

“Betty—”

“No, I’ve just—been leaning on you a lot and I’m sorry.” She flexes her free hand, in and out, studies the bruising and scabbing and scarring on her palm. “You have your own stuff, and—”

“Hey,” Jughead says. “I’m on your side, remember? It’s okay.”

Betty stretches her hand too far. One of the scabs cracks, and begins to bleed. She watches the blood dew up, and then says, “Yeah.”

“They run a mortuary.” Something rustles on the other end of the phone, and then clicks. “The Spellmans.”

“Like—dead people? In the house?”

“Yeah, I think so. I don’t think they had a separate building on the property.”

“God.” She bites the inside of her cheek, and then sucks the blood off her palm as best she can. “Did it smell like a mortuary?”

“No, just like a witch’s house.” He sounds like he’s laughing at her. “Like herbs and magic.”

“What’d Toni think of them?”

“She ditched me after half an hour, so I don’t think she was overly impressed.”

“Now I’m glad I called. If I knew she was going to ditch you I would have just gone with you.”

“No, it’s probably better you didn’t. If you’d been there, I don’t think they’d have let you leave.” His voice gets muffled, just for a moment. “Part of what took so long was that I had to talk them out of just—coming over to Riverdale to get you.”

She has no _idea_ what to think of that. A handful of witches just—crashing into Riverdale to collect her? Like she’s some kind of misplaced UPS package? She doesn’t like that at _all_. “I’m glad you talked them out of that. That—that would have been awful.”

“Yeah, I figured,” says Jughead. “The eldest one was pretty pissed I didn’t bring you with me in the first place.”

“Did they say anything about the like—the hallucinations?” Betty tucks her hair behind her ear again. “The, um. Whatever they are.”

“They said they’d check the grimoires and histories, see if any of their family had anything like that.” He hesitates. “But—but you have to be the one to ask them, the next time. They won’t turn that kind of information over to me.”

“Okay.” Better than nothing, she supposes. She has a million questions, though she’s not sure how to ask them. It feels strange and inorganic over the phone. She wants to look him in the face when she asks him about this family of hers that he’s met; what did they look like, what did they ask, did they look like her at all? “Okay.”

“What’s going on there, you said Cheryl said some things?”

“She took us down to this like—dungeon thing. Veronica said it was a casting space. Cheryl said they hadn’t used it in ages, but—I don’t know, it felt—it felt really awful, Jug. Like people were screaming.” When she reaches out to touch a rose petal, it falls away under her touch. “She said she wanted us to talk down there so her parents wouldn’t hear. She said—she said that she and Jason shared magic, Jug. I didn’t know people could do that.”

Jughead’s quiet for a while. “It’s rare,” he says, after a moment. “I didn’t—think the Blossoms had that kind of—bond going on.”

“Bond?”

“Lavender knows way more about this than me.” He’s rubbing his nose again, bumping at the phone with the back of his hand. “There are a couple of different kinds of bonds that would—mean you share magic with someone. Like—a marriage bond can have that woven into it, if the witches choose. That’s a deliberate choice, though. Sometimes—” He pauses. “I mean, there are other things. But I don’t think the Blossoms would have anything like that.”

“Cheryl said that Blossom twins always share their magic.”

“I don’t know,” says Jughead, slowly. “Maybe it’s a Blossom-specific thing. They practice intermarriage as it is—”

“Like, marrying their cousins?”

“Or each other,” says Jughead. “I’m pretty sure Penelope and Cliff were brother and sister.”

Betty almost throws up on her shoes. “Oh.”

“Ah, how the upper class lives.”

“Cheryl said she wants to do a séance,” she says. “For Jason, before the memorial tomorrow. Veronica thinks it’s a bad idea, but—I don’t know. Maybe we could learn something.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yeah. She said she’s bringing in some witch from Greendale to help. Did the Spellmans say anything about it?”

“No, they didn’t mention anything—Betty, séances are—they can be dangerous. Especially around funerals. Witch ghosts get—stirred up by people remembering them.”

“Yeah, but I saw Jason’s ghost at the river, remember? He didn’t hurt me then. I don’t think he’d hurt us if we tried it now.” She swallows. “And, I mean—if it gets us answers—”

“Yeah, maybe. I just—I don’t know, Betty.”

“Veronica will be there,” she says. “And Ell. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

“I still wish I could be there,” he says.

It might be because she’s sleepy and feeling stupid, or because it’s been such a long day, or because of what Ell had said, about Jughead not being surprised about what her familiar would be like, about the ugliness and the brutality of Ell, the softness inside, but Betty sits back down, and says, “I wish you could be here too, Jug.” 

The silence seems to hang taut, like she’s said something she shouldn’t have. She can almost see him wetting his lips, trying to figure out what to say.

“I don’t know,” she says. Anxiety creeps up her throat, blooming bright. “Kevin said something the other day that was like—he was really glad that I was trusting him more with family stuff, because I didn’t before, and I just—I wanted to say that you’ve really been here for me through—all of this. And it’s been a lot, and—and I’m really glad I yelled at you in the projection booth, even though I burned the Twilight down. Because—I don’t know. I feel like I see more of you now. I feel like you trust me more. And—and I like having that. With us. It’s—I think you’re the most important person in my life right now, and—I don’t know. I wanted to say it. So you knew.”

“Betty,” says Jughead, a little hoarsely.

“You don’t, um. Have to say anything, I just—”

“No, I—"

“You shouldn’t be out here this late, Polly, dear.”

Betty screams. She hadn’t heard anything, seen anyone, and yet now there’s a woman sitting beside her bench, a woman in a wheelchair with sheer, feathery white hair and age spots on her hands. Ell’s alert in an instant, teeth bared in a horrific snarl. She can hear Jughead shouting over the phone, a muffled cacophony. She leaps to her feet, stumbling backwards, and then puts a hand to her heart.

“Ell,” she says, and then sharper. “ _Ell_. Ell, it’s okay. It’s Cheryl’s grandmother.”

 ** _She shouldn’t have been able to do that_** , Ell says. The childishness is completely gone from his voice. It’s all sharp edges. **_I didn’t smell her, Betty. I didn’t sense her coming._**

“You’ll catch your death,” says Cheryl’s grandmother. Betty can’t remember the woman’s name. “You shouldn’t be out here without a coat.”

“ _Betty_ ,” says Jughead, loudly over the phone. Betty looks, for a long beat, at the old lady in the wheelchair. Then she puts the phone back to her ear.

“I’m okay.”

“What happened?”

“I—I think Cheryl’s grandmother figured out I was in the garden.” She swallows. “I’m okay.”

“Do you want me to come out there and get you?” he says, and she knows he’d do it, from how serious he sounds. He’d break into Thornhill to come get her, if she asked. Betty twists her fingers into the necklace again.

“No, I’m okay. Um—I’ll text when I get back inside, okay? I’m going to—let Cheryl know her grandma’s still awake.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” She swallows down more words, unsure of their place. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Text me when you’re inside.”

“Yeah,” says Betty, and hangs up the phone.

“It’s nice that you have such good friends, Polly, love,” says the old lady, and she offers one hand, as if this is normal, for her to look at Betty and see her sister. Betty darts a glance at the French doors, but no one is there; if anyone heard her screaming, no one has come to look. Her tongue is sandpaper as she reaches out, and puts her hand into the old woman’s, the delicate skin and fragile bones like a bird against her scabby palms. “To check on you so late at night.”

“Yes, I—I have very good friends.” Cheryl had said nothing about her grandmother, not even mentioned her name; Cliff and Penelope had ignored her at the dining table. Betty swallows. “Do you—maybe want to go and find Cheryl?”

“Oh, but you’re not wearing your ring, dear.” The old woman gives her a _look_ , then, and Betty realizes her eyes aren’t quite focused. Alzheimer’s, maybe, she thinks. Fading vision. Or something else. “That was clever of you, not to wear it here. If Penelope saw it, she’d have _snipped_ it—”

Her hands go tight. The old woman’s long, painted nails dig into her knuckles, pinching her ring finger.

“—right off your finger.”

 _A ring._ Betty swallows, hard. She settles back onto the bench, beside the woman in the wheelchair. _She thinks I’m Polly. And Polly had a ring._

“Yes,” she says, slowly. “I—I left it at home. Just in case.”

“Good,” says the old woman. “Jason was so anxious when he asked me for it, you know. He loves you very much.”

 _Jason gave Polly a ring._ Her throat locks. She has to swallow not twice, but three times before she can say, “I love him very much, too.”

“Poor girl,” says the old woman. She reaches out with her other hand, cups Betty’s cheek, strokes her hair behind her ear. “You’ve lost everything, haven’t you? I told him, your Jason. You don’t bring mortals into this world of ours. Girls like you just get eaten alive.”

Betty blinks, furiously. Her vision is going blurry with tears. “Mortals?”

“Jason will explain it to you, dear,” says Cheryl’s grandmother. She pats Betty’s jaw, gently. “Once you’re married, he’ll have to. Don’t be too angry with him for keeping it to himself, for now. He’s leaving everything for you, you see. And if his mother knew, she’d rip your pretty throat out with her bare hands.”

Very carefully, Betty sets Veronica’s phone down on the stone bench. She covers the old woman’s hand, clasping it in both of hers. She doesn’t seem to have a firm hold of time, this woman. Nor of place, or of person, if she thinks Betty is Polly. They do look similar enough that at a distance, she’s been mistaken for her sister a million times. Maybe, she thinks, this is a despicable thing for her to do, to manipulate an old woman like this. But— “Mrs. Blossom, I—”

“Nana, dear,” says the woman. “I told you, you call me Nana Rose.”

“Sorry,” says Betty. “N—Nana Rose. Jason—told me something.”

“What’s that, dear?”

“Jason told me something,” she says. “About—about the house.”

Nana Rose’s eyelashes flutter. She leans back in her wheelchair. “Ah,” she says, and squeezes Betty’s hand in hers. “He told you what’s here, hasn’t he?”

Betty shakes her head. “He just—he told me that something’s here.” She holds tighter to Nana Rose’s fingers. “Something secret. He told me—not to ask.”

“Well,” says Nana Rose. “And now he’s gone, and you wonder what it was.”

Betty nods.

“You know, those children of mine in there don’t think I notice things.” Nana Rose closes her eyes. “I do. I see more than they think. Jason always knew that. It’s why I miss him. He was the best of our family. The cleverest of us. It’s why he chose you, Polly. He knew that with you, we’d be stronger than we were.”

“Stronger?”

“Nana Rose,” says a voice, and Betty looks around. It’s Cheryl, still in her teddy, a silk robe flung over the top. It’s slipping off one of her shoulders. Her eyes latch to Betty. “Bettykins. I’m sorry my grandmother startled you.”

“Oh, no, she didn’t, it’s—fine.” Betty looks back at Nana Rose, whose eyes have gone glassy. Her mouth is slack, now. It’s like whatever occupied her mind is gone, now, faded away. “She’s been telling me about Jason.”

“She has?” Cheryl lifts an eyebrow. “She likes you, then. She doesn’t speak much, just has a tendency to use transportation spells, scare anyone she can. We have to keep her in the attic most days.” She settles her hands on the bars behind Nana Rose’s head. “Come along, Nana. I’m going to take you back to your room now.”

Betty’s hand slips out of Nana Rose’s. Nana Rose doesn’t try to hold on.

“You,” says Cheryl. “Go back upstairs and tend to Veronica, would you? She’s struggling with painting the nails on her right hand.”

Betty can’t think of any excuses. She stands, and Ell comes close to her hip. “Are you sure you don’t want help with—”

“I can handle my own grandmother, thank you.” Cheryl’s eyes narrow. “Go back upstairs.”

Betty obeys. There’s nothing else she can do.

.

.

.

_Lodge: Hey, I’m back in the room with Veronica and Pye. Nana Rose had some things to say. I’ll tell you tomorrow. —B_

Jughead puts the phone to his head, and lets out a deep breath. He’s shaking, still—he’s not sure if it’s from adrenalin, anxiety, or absolute terror—when he types out, _anything interesting?_

_Lodge: Don’t want to type it on V’s phone in case something goes wrong, but yeah._

_Lodge: What time are you getting here?_

_Jughead: the memorial starts at 10, so 9:30?_

_Lodge: I’ll be down at the gates with more news._

_Jughead: please tell me when the séance is over so i know everything is okay_

_Lodge: Of course!_ 🥰 💃 ✌️

The emojis clinch it. It’s Betty, not Cheryl pretending. He types, _good night._

 _Lodge_ : _Sleep sweet Juggie!!_ 😴 😴 😴 _—B_

The moment’s gone. His guts have vanished out of his body. Jughead shoves his phone back into the pocket of his pajama pants, and rubs his hands over his face, trying to keep them from trembling. Betty screaming had just about given him heart failure, and he’s not entirely sure he’s going to recover in the next century. She’d been _terrified_ , he thinks. He’s _never_ heard her sound that scared, and he never, ever wants to again. Thankfully, him shouting her name doesn’t seem to have woken Fred; the upstairs rooms are silent, aside from the dim glow coming from Archie’s room. And even more thankfully, she’s _safe_ ; that’s the most important part. Not the fact that his heart’s still racing in his throat.

 _You're the most important person in my life right now_ , Betty says in his head.

 _Stop it,_ he tells himself. _Stop it right now._ Betty's had her whole world turned upside down in the last few weeks. She doesn't need him being weird and emotional on top of it all. It's the last thing she'd want, he knows. She's never _once_ looked at him that way, and she never will. He just—needs to breathe, for a minute. And pretend it’s not going to haunt him, her saying that. The way her voice had sounded.

“So,” says Archie, when Jughead comes back into the bedroom. “Who was that?”

Jughead blinks at him, slowly. “Who was what?”

Archie puts his chin in his hand, bats his eyelashes. Then, in a rough approximation of Jughead’s own voice, he says, “ _Hey._ ”

Jughead seizes the nearest object, a NERF football that he vaguely remembers from when they were younger, and chucks it right in Archie’s face.


	22. With Wicked Force

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A séance is conducted. A door is opened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EXTREME CW FOR THIS CHAPTER FOR:
> 
> \--peer pressure  
> \--Alice pressure  
> \--mentions of Grundy and a revelation of a surprising age gap (it will be discussed later)  
> \--claustrophobia vibes  
> \--mentions of rollercoasters/Slingshot rides (if you don't know what those are they're the like spherical cages that get tossed into the air on an elastic band)  
> \--mentions of grief  
> \--description of drowning  
> \--description of a dead body in water  
> \--a graphic description of how Jason died  
> \--mental invasion  
> \--description of a subconscious alternate state of mind  
> \--being brought back from drowning, so, vomiting water, pain, etc.
> 
> PLEASE be careful with yourselves. 
> 
> See endnotes for more detailed description of the alt. state.
> 
> ANNOUNCEMENT: I am **moving** next Wednesday. (Those who follow me on Tumblr will have heard me talk about this.) That's why this chapter took so long to be posted. The next two chapters (the memorial) will be posted back to back, but _only after I have moved_. I plan to be writing on the road if it's not too exhausting, as I won't be driving, so I can actually focus a bit. 
> 
> If you wanna listen to some good music for the seance, click [here!](https://youtu.be/DdkYU2D0Jjw)

This is the longest week Betty’s ever lived through.

The séance is scheduled for three in the morning— ** _the witching hour_** , says Ell, when Betty opens her mouth to ask, and _god_ she’s happy someone is finally _explaining_ things to her without derailing the conversation entirely—so there’s no point in sleeping. At about two-thirty, Cheryl leaves to go collect the Church of Night witch who will be guiding them through it, and Betty and Veronica are left alone in Cheryl Blossom’s bedroom. Veronica’s changed clothes, from her slinky black teddy to a black dress with lace inlay over the ribs that Betty hadn’t seen in her bag.

“Verisimilitude, Bettykins,” says Veronica, when Betty arches an eyebrow at her. “Think of what would have happened if I _hadn’t_ been in sleepwear when Penelope was creeping about earlier. She’d have rumbled us. Though that’s not to say she doesn’t suspect something’s going on anyway.”

It’d been—odd, when Penelope had poked her nose in at about midnight. Strange, in a way that Betty can’t shake. She hadn’t said anything, just pushed the door open to see what they were doing, and then drifted away in her long silk nightgown, almost as if she were floating. Cheryl hadn’t seemed bothered by it, but it prickles at the back of Betty’s neck.

“I guess you would have had to come out to the Blossoms sometime,” says Veronica absently, and leans over Betty’s shoulder to look in the mirror, dabbing lipstick back onto her mouth. She adds, “Though I don’t know if I would have picked _this_ to be your coming-out moment.”

Betty tightens her ponytail, turning her head side to side to check for flyaways. “I really don’t care what they think of me.”

“You should,” says Veronica. She pops her lips, and then puts the lipstick back into her bag. “They hunt witch hunters. Everyone in Riverdale needs to stay on their good side.”

Betty drops down onto the end of Cheryl’s massive bed. Ell, immediately, rests his head on her knee. She’s scratching him between the ears when she says, “Okay, but it’s in _their_ best interests to keep _us_ happy with _them_ , not the other way around. Witch hunters threaten all of us.”

Veronica gives her a funny look, lips curling inward at the edges as if she can’t decide whether to smile or frown. “The Accord says that the Blossoms get free rein to reside on Circle territory so long as they protect the Circle from witch hunters. But _you’re_ not a part of the Circle, Betty. And you’re not part of their Church of Night, either. Hedgewitches aren’t protected by the Accords.”

Something beats against the inside of her ribs, the way a panicked bird flutters its wings against a cage. “Oh,” says Betty, and Ell digs his jaw into her thigh as if to remind her he’s there, heaving one paw up awkwardly to rest his toes on her knee.

**_I’m here, though. I’ll keep you safe._ **

She ruffles Ell’s ears. She’s not sure what to do with Ell’s earnestness. How he says _I’ll protect you_ without hesitation. She’s not sure she’s worth it.

“They don’t know what to do with you yet,” says Veronica, and leans closer to the mirror again to check her eyeliner. “Nobody does, probably. You can bet as soon as they figure out their strategy though they’ll be after you to do something for them. To join the Church.”

“Why is everyone so insistent that I _have_ to be part of the Church or the Circle?” Veronica opens her mouth, but Betty waves her off. “Jughead said that hedgewitches die if we’re alone, and—that _every_ witch is part of one side or the other, Church or Circle, but—but even from what little I’ve seen it’s like you guys are in this—cold war that would put Kennedy and Khrushchev to shame. It’s stupid to me, like—we’re _all_ witches. What does it matter what _side_ we’re on?”

Veronica arches a brow. “It’s not as though we’re initiating a missile crisis.”

“Aren’t you though?” Betty frets with her cuticles, then, remembering that Veronica had _just_ given her an unpaid manicure less than an hour ago, resorts to digging her nails into her palms. The pinch of pain in her hands is more than worth the return of calm, of breathability. She inhales. “I don’t want to be Cuba here.”

“It’s not like you’re the first surprise witch to pop out of nowhere, but—I see your point.” Veronica turns back to the mirror, and fixes her mascara before finally turning her back to the boudoir. She leans back against it, drumming her nails along the antique wood. Pyewacket leaps up into the plush chair beside her, and curls his tail around all four paws. “That’s partly why I think it’d be good for you to undergo a Dark Baptism. The Dark Lord will _protect_ you from that. You can’t be weaponized by anyone.”

“I’m just one person,” says Betty. “I barely know a _cent_ of what’s going on in this—”

“But you’re a powerful witch,” says Veronica, and then hesitates. “And—you’re my triad sister. And you’re connected to the Serpent Prince. You’ve met with Thomas Topaz. The Blossoms know about you now. You’re about to be pushed into the wider world of witchcraft in Riverdale, B. Having an allegiance to one side or another—it’ll keep you safe.”

Ell’s low growl vibrates deep, deep in his throat. The laughter that bursts out of him—aloud, not in her head, hyena laughter that ricochets in Cheryl’s cavernous room—is _anxious_. She’d always thought hyenas laughed for pleasure, not out of fear. Clearly, she’s wrong. **_You shouldn’t pick anything without understanding what it means, Betty. Taking a Dark Baptism means signing away your soul. You have to know what that means before you do it._**

“I know, Ell.”

Veronica looks at Ell, and then away. She strokes Pyewacket.

“I don’t know that I know enough about either side to make a choice,” says Betty, slowly. Her hands ache. “And—and either way I don’t know—about the Church of Night.”

“According to what you and Jughead told me this morning, you’re a Spellman,” says Veronica, as if this is an elementary deduction. “Spellmans have always been in the Church of Night. They’ll expect you to do your Dark Baptism on your sixteenth birthday just like every other Spellman.”

She’s going to get stress ulcers before this is over, she’s absolutely certain. “I’m _not_ a Spellman though,” says Betty. “I’m a Cooper. I grew up a Cooper. I’ve always been a Cooper. And I don’t—I don’t _know_ anything about the Church of Night other than—than cannibalism and selling your soul and—and things that sound kind of terrible, if I’m honest. So—I can’t make that choice, Veronica. Not yet. Please respect that.”

Veronica’s eyes soften. She steps away from the makeup table, reaches out for Betty’s hands. Betty wipes them on the fabric of her black jeans (packed just for this, a pair she’d stolen from Polly and hidden deep beneath her bed to keep her mother from confiscating them in her bid for _nothing but pastels for my daughter_ ) and takes them, praying she’s not bleeding. Veronica pulls her to her feet, and then hugs her, and the feel of lightning and scent of heady jasmine fills her. Betty hugs her back, and holds on. Veronica is shorter than her, but she’s in heels; their eyes are almost even.

“Okay,” says Veronica into her temple, and then pulls back. She cups Betty’s face for a moment, rests her hands to Betty’s shoulders. “Okay. I promise, I won’t push.” Her inky eyes fix on Betty’s, searching her face. “I just—I want you to be safe. You know that. Right?”

“Yeah,” says Betty. She sighs. “Yeah, I know. I just—need time.”

Veronica nods, and folds Betty close to her again. It’s nice, to be held, and Betty remembers in a flash the hopes she’d had when Veronica had first come to Riverdale. A friend, she’d thought. A female friend, someone she could relate to, someone who wouldn’t just use her for her perfect girl-next-door image, someone who would _get it_ and roll her eyes when Archie and Jughead did something particularly idiotic.

“We’re sisters,” says Veronica. Her voice is muffled in Betty’s ear. “That won’t change no matter what you pick, okay? Hedgewitch or Serpent or—any of it. We’re sisters. We’re meant to be sisters.”

Maybe it’s the intervening time, or maybe it’s the ease in pressure, but it doesn’t feel as _huge_ as it did, to hear Veronica say that now. Still. “I wish I knew more about—triads.”

“Mami has a book about them. I can give it to you to read in all your spare time.” Veronica frowns, and pulls away. “Though you’ve already missed like eight million meetings at school because of all this. Weatherbee wasn’t happy the last time I saw him.”

“Believe me, I know.” She’s gotten enough emails that she’s been ignoring, saying things like _you’re being unprofessional Betty_ and _I thought you were getting this to the council today Betty_ and _what happened to student council Betty_. “I told him I was taking some personal time.”

“Yeah, well, apparently to him you don’t _have_ personal time.” Veronica rolls her eyes. “At least tomorrow is a weekend.”

“ _At least_ ,” says Betty, and Veronica snorts. “I mean most of that is—stuff my mom wanted me to do. Student council, that kind of thing. And—I don’t know. I like helping out.”

Veronica cocks an eyebrow. “To the point of having no time of your own?”

 _Never too harsh_ , she thinks. It’s her mother’s voice in her head. She hasn’t realized that before. _Always sweet. Always apologize first, even if you’re not the one at fault. Always say yes to people asking you favors. It means they owe you. And the more you do for other people, the better you’ll look for Yale._

Cheerleading, she thinks, is the first thing she’s done that _she_ wanted. Something she’s wanted to do since she was tiny. Dance and gymnastics had both been leading up to that. Something she’s wanted, desperately, and her mother had never seen for her. _Outdated and sexist crap that’s just meant to let sports fans ogle legs like perverts instead of watching pay-per-view._ But she _likes_ it. She likes the _Blue & Gold_, too. But student council, helping Weatherbee, helping the administrators, touring around the school with new students, tutoring—none of that feels like anything other than a chore. Something to put on her resume. Something she didn’t _choose._ And now—

 _Circle or Church, Betty_?

Something about that shakes her to the core.

“B?” Veronica tips her head like Pyewacket. “You all there?”

Betty grasps the pentacle. “Yeah. I guess so.”

“Cool, cause Cheryl just texted.” Veronica lifts her phone. “She’s almost here.”

Ell licks Betty’s fingers. When she looks down at him, he says, **_No crying. Not in front of people._**

 _Yeah._ He’s right. Betty dabs the corners of her eyes with the tips of her fingers. “Cool.”

“You still don’t want the Church of Night to know about you, right?”

“I mean, I’m sure they do.”

“Cheryl hasn’t told them, she says.” Veronica looks down at her phone. “She wants to know how to introduce you.”

 _Like she actually cares?_ Betty frowns. “Um—she can’t just say hedgewitch?”

“The Church will know all the hedgewitches in the area.”

Shit. “Um, then just—say I’m in the Circle, I guess. They’ll know I’m not in the Church, so.”

“That works.” Veronica’s thumbs tap away. “She’s three minutes out. We should meet her in the gardens.”

Cheryl’s family has many cars. Cheryl has a red convertible, which is so on-point that Betty almost retches at the sight of it; Jason had had one of his own, in a shade of royal blue to match his Bulldog uniform. Neither of them are sixteen—were sixteen, she corrects herself—but no deputy in town would _dare_ pull over the Blossoms. Power in the witch world and the mortal one, she thinks; in one, political influence; the other, money. Money _always_ talks, especially when it employs half the town. Cheryl’s driven right up to the door, sunglasses on even in the dark; she pushes them up her forehead, strokes Belial (still worn like a choker around her neck) and gets out of the driver’s seat when she sees Betty and Veronica in the front door, clambering out of the car with more grace than Betty can manage, and says, “There you are.”

“Oh, dear,” says the little witch in the front seat. Betty can’t make out her face. She’s smaller than Betty anticipated, and has a silk kerchief tied over her hair, like a lady from the fifties. “Um, Cheryl, dear—I don’t think that running the red light was _exactly_ necessary—”

“Oh, shut up,” says Cheryl. Her Blossom walls are back up, high and laced with thorns. She reaches into the back of the convertible, digging around and extracting a bright white dress shirt. It’s a man’s. “It’s not as though we hit anything. It’s ten minutes to three, ladies, we’d best make our way.”

“We were waiting on you, Cher,” says Veronica, and rolls her eyes. Pyewacket sticks close to her side. “Who’s your friend?”

“Betty, Veronica, this is Hilda Spellman,” says Cheryl, and the blood drains out of Betty’s head as the round witch opens the passenger side door, and steps out. She feels faint, dizzy. She seizes Veronica’s hand, and hopes she’s not squeezing too tight. On her other side, Ell presses close, whining against her leg. “She’s doing me a favor.”

 ** _Betty, don’t_** , says Ell. **_Don’t say anything to her. Don’t. Not yet._**

She isn’t planning to. She has no intention of getting carted off to Greendale, not yet. She just—didn’t think she’d be meeting a Spellman until later. Betty drops her hand to Ell’s head, and says, “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too, dear,” says Hilda. She looks like Betty always pictured an older Glinda the Good Witch might, small with a round face, curly dusty blonde hair poking out from beneath the kerchief. There are dimples in her cheeks, and her eyeshadow is shockingly blue, even in the shadows. She doesn’t reach out to shake Betty’s hand. “I don’t think I’ve seen you at Black Mass. Do you attend the Academy?”

“Betty’s part of the Circle of the Snake,” says Cheryl, and casts a look in Betty’s direction, as if to say, _You see? I kept my promise._ “She’s agreed to help tonight as a favor.”

“Oh,” says Hilda. She gives Betty another curious look, almost too-searching, before turning to Veronica. “And you must be Hermione’s daughter.”

“Veronica,” says Veronica, and bends to kiss Hilda on both cheeks. She doesn’t let go of Betty’s hand “Mamá talks about you.”

“A very talented witch, it was sad to see her move.” Hilda twinkles at them. “Cheryl, dear, I see you found the—”

“I did.” Cheryl strokes her hand over Jason’s shirt. “I looked for his letterman jacket, but—I couldn’t find it. He wore this a lot, though.”

Hilda reaches out, and gently brushes her fingers over the fabric of the button-down. She says, “That will work nicely.”

 ** _It smells like Jason_** , Ell tells her. **_Has a lot of his magic and his aura on it. It’ll help his spirit find its way back to this world._**

Betty looks down at Ell. Pyewacket’s settled in front of her, she realizes. His tail flickers back and forth, and he’s staring at Hilda Spellman as if he’s trying to determine if she can be swallowed whole. Veronica, softly, says, “Pye, come here,” and Pyewacket lets out a low, dangerous sound before trotting to Veronica’s side, tail up like a flag. Veronica lets go of Betty’s hand to pick him up, lifting him to put him around her neck like a feather boa. His eyes reflect strangely in the deep dark of the night.

“What?” says Betty. Ell’s teeth are flashing.

 ** _He said to tell you he’ll watch out for the Spellman,_** says Ell, sounding persnickety. **_Like I can’t do that on my own._**

“It’s nice to cooperate with people,” says Betty mildly. Hilda has no visible familiar. Betty wonders if, like Cheryl with Belial, she keeps her familiar close to her skin. “You like Pyewacket.”

 ** _I can protect my own witch_** , Ell says, and his lips curl back from his teeth. **_Pye knows that._**

Betty doesn’t respond. There’s nothing she can say without drawing attention. She strokes her hand down Ell’s head, though, dragging her nails on the underside of his jaw like he likes, and his temper eases, rolling back through their shared magic like a fading storm.

“Well,” says Cheryl. “Let’s go, witches.”

Veronica rolls her eyes at Betty in the dark, and takes lead.

Hilda ignores her, thankfully. Betty can’t seem to peel her eyes away, though. Hilda Spellman seems to be the kind of person who was extracted from the wrong decade. Her shoes and dress are all late fifties, her kerchief straight from the Victorian era. She’s even wearing gloves. Ell doesn’t speak; he looks up at Betty and then back at Hilda, a never-ending cycle. _That’s my cousin_ , Betty thinks. _That witch is my cousin._

“Is he okay?” Cheryl asks, and Betty realizes that Cheryl’s dropped back to walk beside them, instead of at the front with Veronica and Hilda. She’s watching Ell as if he’s a painting by an old master, a Van Gogh or Vermeer or John Singer Sargent. Belial’s split tongue flickers at Cheryl’s neck. Betty forces her eyes away from the rattlesnake, and strokes Ell’s head again.

“I think so.” She looks down at Ell. “Just a bit antsy.”

Ell lets his tongue loll out his mouth, and his tail wags in a vague circle. **_Pye keeps trying to help me because I’m younger than him. You can tell her that._**

“He says that Pye’s trying to help cause Ell’s younger,” says Betty. She watches Cheryl for a moment. “He likes you.”

Cheryl’s eyelashes flutter wide, and she rubs her thumb over Belial’s triangle head. “Oh.”

Ell does a little dance with all four feet, clocking into Betty’s leg. He says, **_She’s happy._**

How incredibly odd this is, Betty thinks. Bonding with Cheryl Blossom, her middle school bully and teenage nightmare, over her hyena familiar. Betty wets her lips, hesitating. “Is Belial a spirit or a goblin?”

Cheryl straightens up, putting her shoulders back. “He’s a goblin from the Lovecraft breeding line. Selected by my mother with Father Blackwood’s recommendation. He came with the highest pedigree possible and we were bound when Jason and I turned sixteen.”

Belial flickers his tongue again, and his rattle sweeps over Cheryl’s collarbone.

 ** _Spirits choose,_** says Ell. **_Goblins are bred. Most witches in covens have bred goblins for familiars, not spirits._**

Like indentured servants, Jughead had said. But Belial’s coiled so close around Cheryl’s neck, it can’t just be that. When you share magic the way you do with a familiar, there has to be some feeling there. “He suits you,” says Betty after a moment, and Cheryl’s painted lips curve, just slightly.

“Thank you. Ellemanzer suits you.”

Something processes. “So—wait. I thought your birthday was in January.”

“It is,” says Cheryl absently.

“You turned fifteen this year.”

Cheryl tips her head back, and laughs. “Oh, _Bettykins_. So adorably naïve.” She pets Belial. “I was born in 1952.”

Betty’s brain glitches out.

“Wait,” she says. “Wait. You— _wait._ ”

Cheryl smirks at her.

“You and Jason—” She puts a hand to her head. “My sister was dating—”

“If it helps,” says Cheryl, nose wrinkling, “witches age differently. We’re not considered to be adults until we hit our first century.”

“But—” She does math in her head. _“You’re sixty-six._ ”

“And I went to the Academy until three years ago. So.” She shrugs. “It’s how witchcraft works, Betty Cooper.”

Betty takes a breath. “Wait—is Jughead—”

“Oh, he’s a baby. Just like you.” Her eyes are all mischief. She’s never seen Cheryl so relaxed. The calm before the séance storm, she supposes. “You’ll have to get used to much more shocking things, you know.”

“No, I—” She rubs her head. “I know.”

Cheryl retreats back into herself, then. She strokes Belial’s head, thoughtfully.

“So,” says Betty. “I guess I’m not an overcooked marshmallow anymore.”

“Oh, please, Bettykins, a lady’s allowed to change her mind.” Cheryl strokes her hands over Jason’s shirt. “And—I perhaps—allowed—my justifiable grudge against your mortal sister to—cloud my judgment, slightly.”

Betty arches one eyebrow. _My sister was dating a sixty-six year old and she didn’t know._ She _cannot_ think about that right now. Can’t compare it to Grundy and Archie yet. She doesn’t have the mental space. She needs to _focus_ right now. “Uh-huh.”

“We witches are few and far between, Elizabeth Cooper,” says Cheryl. Her eyes slip to Hilda’s back, and she lowers her voice, just enough to keep it private. “We may fight amongst ourselves, but we will _always_ side with each other over witch hunters. Or _any_ mortals.”

She watches Betty, and Betty feels—something. A prickling up her spine. Not attraction—Cheryl’s beautiful and Betty knows it, but—no. Something else.

 _You’re important_ , she thinks. Something creeps in her throat, behind her eyes. _You’re—_

_—red nails and black ones and blue, six hands together, fingers touching, palms up, and her scars are showing but she does not care, her mind—_

**_Betty_** , says Ell, and she snaps out of it. The image lingers, sharp and clear, even as her mind wavers like smoke. She’s never _remembered_ one of these so clearly before. And—she clutches the pentacle around her neck—she shouldn’t have seen it at all, not wearing this. This is supposed to _stop_ the visions and the hallucinations and the surges. Unless—

“Oh,” says Cheryl, and she steps out of Betty’s reach to aim for the hedge. “There’s a latch inside, I can pull it.”

“Thank you, dear,” says Hilda, and Betty puts a hand to her head. She’s cobwebby, or—something. Like when her mother gives her sleeping pills to ensure she gets a full eight hours. Foggy around the edges, the world not quite aligning right.

 ** _Betty,_** says Ell again. **_You’re shaking_. **

“I’m fine,” says Betty. She swallows with a dry mouth. “It’s nothing.”

**_Was it Cheryl?_ **

“I’m okay, Ell.”

Ell keens, just a little bit, in the back of his throat. He noses his head up into her hand. **_Tell me,_** he says. **_Talk to me. I can help._**

Cheryl, Veronica, and Hilda are all ahead of her, but they’re still too close. She takes a breath. “Later, okay?” she says, and then she drops to hug Ell around his awkward neck. “Later, I promise.”

Ell licks her cheek.

“B,” says Veronica. “You okay back there?”

“Fine,” says Betty. Her voice comes out clean and steady. “I just hate those stairs.”

Veronica’s eyes narrow, but she lets it alone.

The casting space is exactly the way she remembers; deep, dank, and vile. Someone’s set up a big red candle on the altar, but until Hilda waves a hand, there’s no other light in the room. The candles all catch at once, glimmering with low flame. “All right, loves,” says Hilda, and sets her bag down on the floor. Veronica steps closer to Betty, and slides her hand in hers. “You’ll need to place your hands face down on the altar. Make certain your pinkies are touching, please. We’ll be sharing our energy as a conduit, so we must be in some form of contact.”

Cheryl takes the southern side. She places her hands flat on the stone altar, and then waits.

“You’ll be north, dear,” says Hilda, and taps the space opposite Cheryl, smiling a little at Betty. Betty looks at Veronica, and then puts her hands on the altar too. It’s cold—deeply cold, bitingly, ice in stone—and it stings at her palms, her fingers. The candle in the center of the altar flickers. Her breath, she thinks. Catching at the flame. “As earth—and you, my love, take east for—”

“Air,” says Veronica, and puts her hands on the altar, touching her right pinky to Betty’s left. For once, the surge of ice and lightning eases the twist of panic and pain in Betty’s throat. Then—a more distant echo—pumice and magma as Veronica and Cheryl’s pinkies touch. Veronica doesn’t seem to notice, but it’s all heat up Betty’s legs, surging from the stone beneath her shoes through her muscles and up into her guts. Cheryl had said her magic was _gone_ , she thinks, but it _has_ to be Cheryl. She’d felt this in the locker room, too, taking Cheryl’s hand.

When Betty looks up, Cheryl’s watching her. In the flickering candle, her eyes are black.

“And me, here.” Hilda makes a bit of a face. “I’m less suited to water than I am earth, but needs must, and it’s not set in stone anyway—”

“We don’t need to hear the esoterica of summoning spirits,” Cheryl snaps. Her voice cracks. “Just—it’s almost the witching hour.”

“Keep your trousers on, Cheryl, dear,” says Hilda mildly. She takes a breath, and looses it. “Now—keep your hands touching. Jason—may speak through any of us. Most likely through me, as I’m leading the rite. He may also speak for himself. It’s difficult to say; witch spirits tend to be more unpredictable than mortal ones.” 

The candle flickers again.

“Are you all right, dear?” says Hilda. She’s looking at Betty. Betty swallows, and pastes a smile on.

“I’m fine.”

“We should start,” says Veronica. She catches Betty’s eye, and then Cheryl’s. “Before we run out of time.”

“Right, then,” says Hilda. “Close your eyes. I need you to direct your power into the altar, dears. Give him a place to land.”

 _Direct your power._ Betty takes a breath, and she focuses hard on the altar, pushing past the raw, sharp edges of it and deeper into the stone. It stinks of blood, though the scent is new and fresh and should not be there; somewhere, behind her in this secret chamber, liquid is dripping. 

“Spirits below and above,” says Hilda, softly. “Spirits in between, caught in the fabric betwixt worlds—”

 _Polly._ It thrums in her chest, vibrating, a fishing line stretching far out into deep water. _Polly, pretty Polly—_

Betty shakes her head, and pushes the thought away. She focuses in on the altar again. Beside her, she can feel Veronica, magic snapping and crackling like a firecracker, like contained lightning. Beneath her is the blazing, melting heat of a volcano. Cheryl.

“—ask that the veil be lifted, and that you send forth the spirit of our lost brother, Jason Mordecai Blossom.” Cheryl makes a ragged sound at the name, but Betty barely hears it. She’s focused too hard. “Jason, you are welcome to this room, to this circle. If you are here, we ask that you make your presence known.”

Sometimes the state fair comes to Riverdale. Or, well, close to it. An hour’s drive away, in a gigantic fairground that with a Slingshot, one of those rides where you get strapped into a protective cage and then flung fifty feet in the air on elastic cords. It’s always been Betty’s favorite ride, because she could ride it alone, and up there, way above Riverdale, she could open her eyes and _not_ be scared or lose control. She wasn’t _in_ control up there, gravity was, and she can remember screaming all the way down in delight, not terror.

This is the same feeling, but worse. The bottom of her stomach drops away, and there is no floor beneath her. The candles flicker in unison, all around the room. She knows because the light shining through her eyelids skitters, like cockroaches crawling through shadows. Veronica seizes Betty’s hand, squeezing hard, and Betty squeezes back. Veronica’s palm is slippery with sweat, her nails biting into Betty’s flesh, but there is someone new in the room now, breathing, wet and hollow. She does not open her eyes.

“Jay-Jay,” says Cheryl. Her voice cracks straight through. “Jay-Jay, is that you?”

“Eyes closed, dear,” says Hilda. She sounds steady, and Betty seizes her hand too, on her right. She has warm hands, rough with callus. “He says—”

 _Polly._ It pounds at her throat, like she’s battering a door. _Polly, Polly, Polly—_

“—that his name is Jason.”

“Spirits lie,” says Veronica, softly. “Ask him something, Cheryl. Something only Jason would know.”

Betty wets her lips. 

“When we were six,” says Cheryl. “You—you gave me something for our birthday in secret. What was it?”

Silence.

“A goat,” Hilda says, and Cheryl takes a sudden, shaky breath. “Does that make sense?”

“Yes—yes. Yes, he gave me—he gave me a little goat’s head. A necklace. For our birthday. He said Nana Rose—” She hiccups. “ _Jay-Jay._ ”

Betty opens her eyes.

Jason Blossom is standing on the altar. He is not rotting, or stained, or river-muddied. He is whole and healthy, and he is facing her. Cheryl, across from her, is crying. Tears stream down her cheeks in silence, smearing her makeup into dark lines. She doesn’t break the circle of hands, but she can’t look away from Jason, either. She’s not even blinking.

“Jason,” says Cheryl. “Jay-Jay, _who killed you_?”

Silence. If Jason is speaking, Betty thinks, she can’t hear it.

“He doesn’t know,” says Hilda, softly. Her eyes are still closed. When Betty looks at her, there are wrinkles in her forehead. Her forties curls are loosening up, as if she’s been dunked in water. “He was unconscious before the end.”

Cheryl sobs.

“Jason,” says Veronica. “Who took you in Fox Forest?”

Her skull is full of words, of voices. _Polly_ , _pretty Polly, come and go with me_ —

“He says—” Hilda hesitates. “He says he can’t—he can’t hold on.”

On the altar, Jason’s smile creases at the edges. There are tears in his eyes.

“No,” Cheryl says. “No, Jay-Jay—“

“He says—”

 _Please,_ he mouths at her.

Betty’s lips part—

Cold.

She is cold. The alter is gone. She is drowning. She is in water. She is deep in it, deep, but she’s not drowning, deep in the cold as crawdads crawl through her ribs. She is deep in water and there is weight holding her down, but it fades, slowly, as the blanket she was wrapped in is torn by the current. She comes away from her ties, and she rises, rises, slowly, to the surface—

She is in a room—

Cold—

Frozen—

The first strike is a shock—

She is tied—

Another stone, to the jaw; it snaps—

_You only have one chance, Jason. You only have one choice._

A stone to the ribs and she feels them crack—

_Repent unto the Lord and make it known to Him that you have turned against his traitor son—_

“No,” says Betty, but her voice is drowned in the scream of _no no no no no_ , the shouting of a boy inside her head, a boy, a beautiful stupid brilliant awful boy, _no, I’m not that, I’m not—_

He is inside her, she is inside him, they are one, she is Jason, he is Betty, his spirit tangles up her throat, she is splitting apart—

 _Say it, Jason._ The stone comes down. _Say it._

Blood and pain and shadow—

 _No,_ says Jason, and it rips up her own throat with blades of blood. _I won’t._

 _You should not be attempting this,_ says another voice, and it is a man that she does not know, that she does not recognize— _He is a Blossom. He is born of greater sin than most. He will not repent._

Jason laughs, and his hand shatters under stone. There is a song in her head, and she’s not sure if it’s in hers or his—

“ _Betty_ —”

“Don’t touch her, he’s speaking through her—”

“He’s _killing_ her _—_ ”

 _Polly,_ she thinks. Or Jason thinks. Or they think. _Pretty Polly, come and go with me_ —

Her arm, now—

_O, Mighty Dark Lord—_

_Repent—_

_—by whom all things are set afire—_

— _sinners_ —

— _thy power be thy path, thy will be my desire—_

_\--of that original sin that is the stain of Satan’s hold—_

— _in Hell as it is on Earth—_

— _in the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost_ —

— _Praise Satan._

— _Amen._

 _Betty,_ says Jason, and it’s as if his voice is right in her ear, as if he’s pressed his lips to her earlobe and has his arms wrapped around her from behind, river water and blood. _Betty, you have to find Polly._

“Where are you?” Betty says. “What did you do with Grundy?”

 _You have to find Polly,_ says Jason. It’s as though he hasn’t heard her _. You have to protect them from our families. You have to keep them safe from what’s in that house._

“Safe from what?”

 _Betty,_ says Jason. _Betty, they want the babies. You have to let me help them._

“What?”

_Let me help them._

Hands close around her neck—

“Jason—”

 _Let me,_ says Jason, and there is a tongue along her cheek, _let me in, little half-witch_ —

She drowns—

The water is gone. She’s not in the river, not in that small room with Jason, but she’s not back in the casting chamber, either. She is somewhere else. The room is small. The walls are painted baby blue. Clouds are painted across the ceiling. Betty has the sense that this is a dream; it is not a dream; it is reality; it is elusive. The view out the window is a landscape, an ocean. They’re on a cliffside. The bed is small, with a copper frame that has great big knobs at the end of the bed. The comforter is deep navy, and stitched with constellations that Betty doesn’t recognize.

“You’re not supposed to be in here.”

Polly. It’s _Polly._ Polly from when they were younger, Polly at twelve, her hair in pigtails, her jaw set in a firm stubborn line. Betty’s eyes burn. She reaches out, and when she touches Polly’s cheek, it is warm and firm under her fingers, with the give of plum skin.

“ _Polly_ —”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she says. Her eyes dart past Betty to the window and back. “You have your space, this one is mine.”

“Polly, I’ve been looking for you, I’ve been trying to find you, Mom and Dad—”

“I’m _not that Polly_ ,” says Polly, and she pushes Betty’s hand off her cheek. “I don’t know where _she_ is, I just know _you_ are not supposed to _be_ here—if you’re here, who’s—”

She sees something. Betty can see it in how her eyes widen, and then narrow. Betty looks over her shoulder. A cloud has formed across the great waves beating against the shoreline. Dark, and thunderous. It ripples the way ink does, when a drop of it falls through water.

Polly grips her elbows. Betty turns back round to look at her.

“That’s an invader,” says Polly, watching the storm cloud. “Whatever the hell you were doing, you let someone in our head.”

Betty opens her mouth, and shuts it again. “Polly—”

“You’re not supposed to be here. You’re supposed to be running the show.”

“Polly—”

“So push that decomposing asshole _out of our head,_ ” says Polly, and then she _shoves—_

—and Betty is back in her own body, lying on a cold stone floor, and she can feel hands on her chest, pumping. She erupts upwards, as if someone’s seized her by the sternum and _pulls_ —water spews out her mouth—she’s gagging—she can hear Veronica, crying, “ _Betty, Betty, Betty_ —” Hilda sagging in relief next to her, letting out a sigh—someone pulls her up, and it’s Cheryl, heaving her off the stone floor, as Veronica supports her back, and it’s the three of them sitting together, heads together, as Betty struggles for breath. She feels as though she’s fainted. Her body is hot all over, her palms are sweating, her back hurts from hitting the stone floor, her skull aches, her lungs burn, and—

“What,” says Betty, and wipes spit and blood and lipstick off her mouth. “What did he say?”

Veronica and Cheryl look at each other. She can feel it, even if her eyes are blurry. They lift their heads, and stare.

“ _What did he say?_ ” says Betty.

Cheryl stands, turns her back, and walks away from the altar.

“Betty,” says Veronica. “Betty—Jason said Polly’s pregnant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guyyyyys. I hope this didn't come as too much of a shock to anyone--I've been trying to layer it in subtly up until now--but I have always been of the firm belief that Betty has one (1) alter, or an altered state of consciousness. Essentially alters are the quote unquote separate personalities that you see in Dissociative Identity Disorder. 
> 
> This will be discussed further. It will not be "taking over the plot;" the plot is "Betty is a witch," Betty just happens to be a witch with DID. I mentioned in the first chapter that this story will be going into Betty's mental health, and this is how that's happening. For those who may be freaked out by this: people with dissociative identity disorder are much more likely to be harmed than to be violent themselves; movies like _Split_ are graphically inappropriate and dangerous representations of folks with DID; the likelihood of an "evil split personality" is extremely low and any trauma that may be committed by an alter is usually directed against other people within the system (the term for a person with multiple people inside their head) or against the body housing the system; and DID is caused by repeated abuse experienced before the age of about seven. Also, people with DID are like. 0.02% of the population, which is the same amount of people with bipolar. It's much more common than you think.
> 
> For more information on DID and alters presented in a sweet, comprehensible, and adorable way, please watch [this video!](https://youtu.be/_dRDqs2t2Y8). Jess is an alter in the MultiplicityAndMe system who breaks it down into palatable chunks. 
> 
> I do not have DID. I have other personality/anxiety disorders. If any of my readers are systems, please let me know if _anything_ about how I handle Betty and Polly is offensive or incorrect. I will be more than happy to change it. 
> 
> For those who don't have DID and think this is a weird way to go: sorry, this has always been my vision for this. I just forgot to add the tag.
> 
> See you after my move!!


	23. A Waste of Wicked Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Betty and Hilda talk. Jughead and Zelda snipe. Things are happening at Thornhill, though perhaps no one is sure what they mean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for discussion of what happened last chapter (i.e. drowning, an episode of dissociation); a lot of sublimated panic; Cheryl is emotionally catatonic for a bit here; Jughead being a snarky lil shithead. 
> 
> Sorry this took so long, guys! I should hopefully have the next chapter up in a few days. Took way longer than I anticipated to acclimate to my new job/workload/locale.

Cheryl hasn’t said a thing in hours.

The four of them had trekked back up to the surface world as soon as Betty got her feet under her. Even if they had wanted to continue the séance, they couldn’t have. Jason was gone; Hilda’s attempts to call him back had not worked. Tears have been rolling down Cheryl’s cheeks the whole morning. She’s numb, Betty thinks; whatever they’ve said to her, it hasn’t fully processed. She can’t seem to hear or see them, and downstairs, more and more people are filtering into Thornhill for Jason’s memorial.

_Polly is pregnant and I don't know where she is._

“What do we do?”

Veronica’s whispering in her ear. Down at their feet, Ell resettles, and growls. Betty rubs her throat, twines her fingers into the chain of the pentacle. Her throat hurts. Scratch that—everything about her respiratory system hurts, from her throat to her trachea to her bronchial tubes to her lungs. Betty rubs her hands up and down her arms. Hilda’s sitting beside Cheryl on the bed. Cheryl hasn’t looked at her at all, hasn’t acknowledged her, but that hasn’t stopped Hilda Spellman from stroking a hand down Cheryl’s hair, slow, quiet motions that Cheryl, for once, is tolerating. Belial the rattlesnake is coiled around her neck, and every few minutes there’s a soft rattling sound, as if he, too, is trying to draw her back from wherever she’s gone. 

“What do you mean?”

Veronica gives Cheryl a significant look. Then she says, still whispering, “If she can’t go downstairs, then what do we do?”

Ell rumbles. It vibrates through her feet, tingling against her toes. **_Stay here with her._**

Betty looks down at him. Ell doesn’t look up at her—he’s settled firmly on her feet, unwilling to budge until he’s sure everything is safe—but he shuffles a little all the same, as if he can feel her eyes on him and can’t help a little wiggle. She says, “You think?”

 ** _She needs someone,_** says Ell, and he finally lifts his head. **_She needs us. We shouldn’t leave her alone, Betty._**

Cheryl hasn’t looked up from her hands. She’s sitting on the end of her bed, the shirt they’d used to summon Jason spread across her lap. She keeps threading one of the sleeves through her fingers, as if by doing that it’ll fix whatever’s gone wrong. Like if she lets go of the shirt, she’ll lose the one thing she has left to connect her to her brother. If she weren’t like this, Betty thinks, there’s no way she’d let Hilda get close enough to touch, let alone stroke her hair like she’s a cat to be soothed. Betty says, “Yeah.”

She has to deal with Grundy today. But—she bites her lip, thinks of what she saw, the three sets of hands with painted nails, the _sense_ of it. _Betty-Veronica-Cheryl._ _Cheryl is important_. It’s in her bones. _Cheryl is important._

 _Wouldn’t Veronica have recognized her too, though?_ It’s the voice of Alice, of her doubt, creeping in through cracks. _If she’s_ —

Betty stops. She has to stop thinking about crap like this when things are all going to hell as it is. And she doesn’t—she still isn’t sure if a witch triad is _real_. She’s not sure how they work, or if she’s just—imagining things. She’s imagined things all her life. Why would she stop now? 

On the bed, Cheryl hiccups, and turns the shirt over. She still hasn’t looked away from the fabric, from the monogrammed _JMB_ on the cuff. Betty can’t watch this anymore.

_Polly is pregnant and I don't know how to find her._

“I’m going to make tea,” she says, after a moment. Hilda looks up. “Before more people arrive. The memorial starts in half an hour, and we need to get ready.”

 ** _I’ll come._** Ell gets to his feet, shakes himself out. **_You shouldn’t be alone right now either._**

“Nobody can see you.” Betty crouches, and when Ell gives her a long, doleful look, she cups his heavy jaw in her hand. He might still grow bigger, she thinks. She can’t imagine that, though. “You have to stay up here, Ell. I’ll be right back, okay?”

 ** _Betty_** —

“Stay and protect Cheryl,” she says, in a much quieter voice, so Veronica and Hilda don’t hear. She kisses Ell’s furry head. “I’ll be right back, I promise. Okay?”

Ell whines. **_I’m supposed to protect you._**

“I’ll be all right.” She swallows down the sour taste on her tongue. _If there are witch hunters still in Riverdale, this would be the event they’d turn up at_. A memorial for the town’s golden boy. Something _everyone_ will attend. Including her dad. And her mom. Her heartbeat thrums in her sore throat. “And if something happens you won’t be far away.”

“I’ll go with you, dear,” says Hilda. She slides off the bed, gives Cheryl another anxious look. “Maybe there’s a jar of valerian down there that’ll help with her nerves.”

Ell looks from Betty to Hilda, and says, **_Don’t answer questions without me there. Not about your mom, none of it. Okay?_**

Betty strokes Ell’s head in a silent _I know_ , and stands. She does _not_ want to be alone with Hilda Spellman right now—not Hilda, who knew about her existence before Jughead ever went to Greendale. Hilda who might know more than she’s saying, might suspect her of—being who she is. She’s not sure there’s much of a choice. She wipes sweaty palms on her skirt, and then says, “Right. Um. It’s this way.” 

Thornhill is spectacularly soundproofed, though if it’s magic or just the thickness of the walls, Betty can’t be sure. Upstairs it’s absolutely quiet, save a few snippets of conversation filtering up through Cheryl’s cracked window. Downstairs, there are cars filtering in and out of the Thornhill driveway, ferrying people up from Riverdale proper. She can hear Mayor McCoy, Josie and Val and Melody; Archie should be here soon too, she thinks, along with Fred and Jughead. The Blossoms themselves must be wandering around tending to guests, supervising the setup for the memorial. Folding chairs and a gleaming coffin, that’s all that’s left of Jason Blossom. 

_Jason got Polly pregnant. They were going to run away together._

The kitchen is just past the door to the den, where the memorial will be held. Betty slips through the bundle of people, ignoring the muffled hellos—she doesn’t want to talk to anyone right now—and holds the door open for Hilda, hoping there aren’t catering staff or, god forbid, Cliff or Penelope Blossom hanging around to ask what the heaven they think they’re doing. The kitchen is empty, though, aside from a few trays of petit fours and finger sandwiches that seem to be wilting with the pressure of being for a Blossom event. Betty can’t remember the last time she came into this room. She thinks it might have been at the house party after the winter formal. It feels like a decade ago. 

“The tea should be in that cupboard,” says Betty, and goes to get it, but Hilda’s already bustled past her.

“No, no, I’ll do it—you take a load off, dear, you’ve had quite the morning.”

“I can—”

“Sit, sit. Rest.” Hilda takes down a jar of dried herbs, casts a look over her shoulder. “Are you all right, dear?” 

Betty bites the inside of her cheek, and leans back against the counter, curling her hands over the cold tile. Hilda Spellman has been watching her all morning, ever since Betty erupted out of being possessed by Jason’s ghost—which Betty _still_ can’t believe happened—and spat two lungfuls of river water out onto the floor of the underground casting space. Betty watches her, and then says, “Yeah. I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

“I see.” Hilda bustles to a cabinet, opens it, and shuts it again, mumbling about valerian. She darts a look at Betty. “Only—it can be very disconcerting to be possessed, are you sure you wouldn’t like to have a lie down?”

“I’m okay.” She rubs her arms again. “Thanks, though.”

“If you say so, dear.”

Hilda settles the kettle onto the gas stove. Betty watches her fidget with the teapot, and then looks up and around. The kitchen in Thornhill is massive, and full of oddities, though none of them appear particularly witchy at first glance. There are rows and rows of glass jars, nestled into a nook beside a highly modern refrigerator with a touch-screen code to get inside. The stove is gas, not electric, polished to a gleaming shine; a polished set of Japanese knives are magneted to the wall beside what appears to be a Satanic pentacle, an upside-down five-pointed star braced over the front of a goat’s head. _No wonder they never hire anyone from Riverdale to work out here._ There are too many risks, if someone saw that. She wonders if they hire other witches to work for them, though Betty hasn’t seen anyone in Thornhill who could be called a servant. It’s just the Blossoms.

She has an abrupt, absurd image of Cliff Blossom making omelets on a Saturday morning, and about chokes on it. Her throat fucking hurts.

_Polly is pregnant with Blossom children. Polly's children will be half-witches._

“Here.”

It’s Hilda. She’s poured whatever tea she’s making into one of the cups, and she offers it with both hands. It smells of mint and something deeper that Betty supposes must be the valerian. “You drink that. It’ll help your throat, love.”

Betty rubs at her neck again. Then, carefully, she takes the cup—it’s delicately patterned with what appears to be upside-down crosses—and makes herself smile. Hilda’s peering at her as if from a great distance, her eyebrows drawing slowly together as she watches Betty resettle her fingers against the ceramic. “Thank you,” she says, and blows at the steam coming off the teacup. It tastes exactly how it smells.

“Are you sure you’re all right, dear?”

“I’m all right.” Betty hesitates. Hilda’s looking away from her again, bustling around to examine the refrigerator before digging a box of sugar cubes out of a nearby pantry. “It was just—odd.”

_Push that decomposing asshole out of our head._

A hand closes tight around her throat. _Don’t think about that right now._ She takes another sip of the tea, shuts her eyes. _Don’t think about it. You don’t have time to think about it. Get through the memorial, and then go home._

“Have you done many séances before?” Outside the kitchen, someone breaks into a bray of laughter—Kevin, she thinks, it sounds like Kevin, and she wonders if she ought to go out there to meet him. No, not yet. She’ll come down with Veronica and Cheryl once they work out if Cheryl will attend the memorial at all.

“Um, no.” Betty swallows, and keeps her eyes on the tea. “I’m not—I don’t know. That one was my first.”

Hilda hums. “I see. They’re not, um—they’re not typically that dramatic, which is quite fortunate, you know, it’s just—atypical for us to summon our own. We live long enough that it often becomes unnecessary, you see.”

That would make sense. Betty turns the teacup in her hands. “Do you—do many séances?”

“Oh, I’ve done one or two,” says Hilda, a bit of cheer coming into her voice. “Not for a while, unfortunately. I’m happy to have given the poor girl a bit of help, she pretends she’s quite fierce but honestly she’s been lost since her brother was killed, even I can see that and I’ve not spoken to her since she was a wee little thing.” 

Betty cannot imagine Cheryl Blossom as anything but venomous. She says, “How old was she when you met her?”

“Oh, she must have been—I don’t know. Six?” Hilda pours more hot water into the teapot, and sets the kettle aside. “Penelope was very reclusive after the birth, wouldn’t bring her to the Church until she was at least past toddling. Not that I blame her, considering—anyway.” She clears her throat, round cheeks flushing. “Grab those spoons, will you? Putting milk in this would break the charm, but they can at least add sugar if they’ve a mind.”

Betty obeys, seizing the nearest set of spoons that someone had set out for the memorial. Hopefully nobody notices the smearing fingerprints she leaves on the cold silver. 

“How did you meet her?” says Hilda. She’s snooping. Betty knows a snoop because she _is_ one; knows the casual tone like she’s born to it. _This woman is my cousin_ , Betty thinks, and the ache in her throat, which had been dying down with the tea, leaps back. “I was under the impression that the Circle keeps away from the Blossoms, on the whole.”

 _Shit. Right._ She’s supposed to be part of the Circle. “Um—yes, mostly. Only—Cheryl and I met at school. She knew who I was, so she—asked if I could help.”

Hilda huffs out a bit of a laugh. “I’m sure she asked very nicely, too.” 

Betty hitches a wan smile up onto her face, and says nothing.

“You’re—” Hilda stops. “I’m sorry, dear, I don’t—mean to pry. Can I ask you a question?” 

“We should—probably get back to Cheryl.” 

“The tea needs to steep a bit more, is all.” Hilda hesitates, wrings her hands. She says, “Do many Circle witches go to mortal schools?”

This is not the tack Betty had been expecting. She swallows. “Some of us do.” 

“Only—” Hilda bites her lip. “I’ve—I learned recently that I’ve a niece, you see. And—and I think she may— _may_ , mind you, I’ve no idea if it’s true or not but I have good reason to believe it—be in the Serpents, or, at the very least, under their protection, and I—I was wondering if you—knew anyone like that, perhaps she goes to your school, or—?” 

_Oh, god._ “Um.” Betty’s tongue sticks to her teeth. “I—no. I don’t—I haven’t met anyone like that, no.”

Hilda presses her lips together, and steps forward. “Are you sure? Only—I spoke to a boy from the Serpents yesterday, Forsythe Jones’s child, and he seemed to believe—”

“I haven’t met anyone like that,” says Betty, and shifts out of reach. Hilda stops moving. She watches Betty, her powdery blue eyes tracing the lines of Betty’s face, and Betty almost begins to cry. “I—I’m sorry, I haven’t met anyone like that.”

“Oh.” Hilda smooths her hands down her frumpy skirt. They’re shaking, Betty realizes. Hilda’s hands are shaking, and her eyes are damp. “I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t mean to frighten you. Only—” She takes a breath. “Oh, never mind. You don’t need to hear me nattering away about it. If you don’t know, you don’t know.”

Betty swallows. “Do you—need help with the tray, or—” 

“Oh, nonsense, I’m perfectly capable of carrying a tray.” Hilda heaves the tray up, and then blows her curls out of her eyes. They’ve been deflating slowly over the course of the last six hours, and by now they’re much more like waves than ringlets; it makes Hilda look a bit younger, less fussy. “If you could get doors for me, there’s a darling—”

Betty bumps the swinging kitchen door open with her hip. Sheriff Keller is standing at the far end of the hall, his cowboy hat settled firmly on his head. His back is to her. Betty’s heart stumbles into a rushing beat, thrums in her sore throat, and she abruptly turns so he can’t see her face, trying to pretend that the blood hasn’t drained out of her face.

“What is it, darling?” says Hilda, and glances at Keller’s back, one eyebrow lifting.

“Nothing.” Betty shifts so the spoons are tucked under her arm, takes Hilda by the elbow. “Just—walk faster—”

“Elizabeth,” says Sheriff Keller, and Betty freezes. She shuts her eyes, takes a breath. When she turns, she’s smiling. “Nice of you to come help the Blossoms so early. Does your father know you’re here?”

“I don’t know why he wouldn’t,” says Betty. She hasn’t let go of Hilda’s arm. Hilda’s lashes flutter as she looks between Betty and Sheriff Keller, her eyes narrowing just slightly. “Um—Hilda, this is Sheriff Keller. Sheriff Keller, this is—”

“Hilda,” says Hilda, and beams at him. “Very nice to meet you, Sheriff Keller.”

“Likewise,” says Sheriff Keller, though he blinks, as if he’s confused. “Are you—a friend of the Blossoms, or—”

“Oh, goodness—this is a bit awkward, um—” Hilda gives Sheriff Keller a bit of a wide-eyed look, and lowers her voice. “I’m here for Cheryl, I’m afraid. She’s not been doing well. I’m here to help, in a—professional capacity.”

It’s not technically a lie, unless you take into account that Hilda Spellman looks about as much like a therapist—well, presumably a therapist—as Betty looks like a goth. Still, Sheriff Keller digests that, and then says, “I see,” rubbing at his stubbly chin. He gives Betty another odd look. “Didn’t know you and Cheryl were friends, Elizabeth.”

“We’re getting there,” says Betty. Her voice is too tight. It’s twining her throat up into knots. “Um, did—did the fire inspector go back to Portland?”

“She’s busy today,” says Sheriff Keller. He gives her a narrow look, sharp with interest. “Pursuing some leads.”

“So you’re here to pay your respects?” She can’t help the note of doubt in her voice, dripping like water from moss. “Or are you here to keep an eye on all of us?”

“Just here as a friend,” says Sheriff Keller mildly. “The Blossoms felt safer with me here.” 

That sounds like a crock of shit, but she’s not about to say that. “Actually, we only left Cheryl to get her some tea, we need to take this up to her—I’ll see you at the memorial, Sheriff Keller.”

“I’d like to talk to you after, if you’re comfortable,” says Sheriff Keller. He takes off his hat, finally, turns it between his hands. “I think—we left it a bit awkward, when you came to visit us at the station.”

“I don’t have anything more to say about that,” says Betty. 

“I don’t think you realize how much you could help us, Betty.” His eyes are piercing. “Whatever you know, or whatever you think you know, could help us put all this to rest. The Twilight, Jason. All of it.” He hesitates, and then says, “I’ve known you since you were a little girl, Betty. These people from Portland, you don’t want to be playing games with them. I know you think you’re protecting someone, but trust me, if you don’t talk to us now, tell us the truth about what happened, it’ll just make things worse for you in the long run. You just need to trust me.”

“No offense, Sheriff Keller,” says Betty, “but after everything that’s happened? I’d rather trust a rattlesnake.” 

It’s only once it’s out her mouth that she thinks of Cheryl and Belial upstairs. She bites her tongue, and keeps her mouth shut. 

“Excuse me,” says Hilda, and they both blink, Betty and Sheriff Keller, almost in the same moment. “Sheriff—Keller, you said? Sheriff Keller?” 

“I—” Sheriff Keller frowns. “What did you say your name was again?”

“Doesn’t matter,” says Hilda. “You’ll not be meeting me again after today.” She shifts her grip on the tray of teacups. “I think you’ll be wanting to leave this girl alone now, Sheriff Keller.”

Sheriff Keller’s mouth turns down. Betty, next to Hilda, twitches. Sweat’s trickling down the back of her dress, rolling along her spine in a cold finger, like frost. “Um,” she says. “Hilda—” 

“I’ll thank you to keep out of police business, ma’am,” says Sheriff Keller. “Considering the fact that—” 

“No, I’m sorry, I’m afraid you don’t understand.” Hilda’s eyes flare a bit wider, her lips curling up in a sweet little smile. “I think you know exactly why you keep pursuing this line of questioning, and it has nothing to do with whether Miss Elizabeth here has given you answers or not. You have bosses, and your bosses have bosses, and they’re breathing down your neck, aren’t they, my love? I know, and you know, you do your best to keep the peace around here, and it’s a delicate balance, isn’t it, pagans and Satanists and hunters all in the same town, you _do_ do your best, but sometimes that just isn’t good enough, and for the life of you you can’t convince the hunters to give up and leave the Blossoms _or_ the Serpents well enough alone. I mean, for all _you_ know one of your own deputies killed that poor boy out there in that coffin, and you can’t be sure whether I’m right or not, can you?”

Sheriff Keller has gone sheet white. He’s staring at Hilda in silence, his eyes bulging, knuckles shining in moonish crescents through the weathered skin of his hands. Betty can’t breathe. 

_Holy shit,_ she thinks. _Holy shit._ Then: _If Sheriff Keller hadn’t already guessed that I at least know about witches, then he has to know now._

“So here you are,” says Hilda Spellman, “trapped between the Blossoms, who have agreed to let you play sheriff for the mortals even though you and your family killed their fathers and their fathers’ fathers, because the Blossoms honestly couldn’t give a toss about the function of Riverdale as a whole so long as they get to stay in this house, and the Order, who want you to drag every witch in town kicking and screaming out of their homes and crush them under stones, and I honestly can’t say I envy your position, Sheriff, truly I don’t.” Hilda sighs. “I feel quite bad for you, really. You don’t _really_ want to kill any of us, do you? You’d rather just let us be and let bygones be bygones, but you’re a hunter born and bred, and you can’t tell that to anyone, not even your ex-wife, though you haven’t exactly been able to tell your dear son about _why_ you and his mother are divorcing, have you?”

“I—” 

“If it were up to you,” says Hilda, still relentlessly cheerful, “you’d let us _all_ get on with it and live out here in the middle of nowhere, hurting nobody who doesn’t need hurting, but you can’t, which means you’re harassing this poor girl to make it seem like you’re doing your job when she barely knows anything about what you’re looking into. But you don’t get to do that anymore, I’m afraid. Deal with your problems by yourself, Sheriff. I’m sure if you take some time to think about it, you’ll realize it’s the best possible solution. If you don’t—if you come near her, or her family, say anything to _anyone_ about this, including that friend you’ve called up from the Order, don’t think we haven’t noticed her—then you _will_ be seeing me again, and I can assure you, I’m not nearly so pleasant when I’m cross. ” 

The moment spins, as if suspended from a web. Sheriff Keller’s throat works, over and over. He turns his hat once. Then, in a rough voice, he says, “Who the hell _are_ you?”

“I don’t think that matters much, do you?” Hilda tips her head. “You’ll not be telling anyone, anyway. But best that you leave this girl alone, Sheriff Keller. Unless you want it exposed that you’ve been working behind closed doors with Mayor McCoy for years, now, and that _she_ has some very unsavory dealings with witches that honestly Riverdale could do quite well without. Have I made myself clear?” 

Betty opens her mouth, and shuts it again. She can’t think what to say. 

_Sheriff Keller is a hunter._ She’d suspected, but—now, she knows. _Sheriff Keller is a hunter and he kills witches._

_Does Kevin know?_

“Crystal,” says Sheriff Keller, through his teeth. He crams his hat back onto his head. “Excuse me.”

He’s gone, back into the den, before Hilda can say another word. 

“Hilda,” says Betty, through numb lips. Hilda shifts her grip on her tray. “What did you just _do_?”

“Oh, mortals are easy, dear,” says Hilda. “All their secrets are in their eyes, I’m surprised you haven’t realized that yet.”

She gapes. 

“Are you worried that he’ll tell someone what I said?” Hilda tips her head. “You shouldn’t. Besides, anyone who chooses to become sheriff of Riverdale has more business dealing with _mortal_ affairs, not witch ones. He should keep himself to himself, for all he’s a hunter.” 

“I—”

“Don’t fret, my love. Now, can you take the tray? It’s heavier than I thought it would be, I’m afraid.”

Betty takes the tray before she fully processes the question. It _is_ heavy, silver handles and thick wood, and she has to focus on readjusting her hold to not spill the tea all down her front. When she looks up again, Hilda is beaming to herself, like a particularly pleased cat. There’s a spider in her hair, Betty realizes. Perched on her curls like a barrette. It moves when Betty notices it, tucking itself back into Hilda’s dusty blonde hair, hiding itself away like a secret. 

“Shall we head back upstairs?” says Hilda. “I’m sure Cheryl will be wanting you by now.”

.

.

.

The suit he’s borrowed from Fred is too big for him, to an absurd degree. Jughead’s not been paying attention to weight loss the last few months—he’s hungry all the time, knows he’s thin, but thinking overmuch about it makes anxiety set in, and that makes him freeze—but putting the jacket on drives home that he’s thinner than he used to be. It also drives home that Fred Andrews is too kind for his own damn good.

“It’s fine,” he’d said, when Jughead had come out of Archie’s room. “Looks good. You can keep it if you want. I’d need to get it tailored to wear it again anyway. Blew a disc in my back a few years ago and lost four inches of height.”

Jughead hadn’t known how to turn him down. So now he has a suit. An older suit, one that smells kind of like mothballs and the back of Fred Andrews’ closet, like aftershave and pine shavings, but a suit. It’s probably the most expensive thing he’s worn in his whole life, and he wants to rip it off his body and shove it back into Fred’s hands with a _thanks but no thanks_. The only reason he hadn’t was Razz shifting around in his pocket, with a tart **_Say thank you, we don’t have time for your pride._**

He’d swallowed it all back, and ignored the slightly shiny look to Fred’s eyes when he’d clapped Jughead on the shoulder, squeezing. Like he was happy. It makes his skin itch.

Archie and Fred are still on Elm Street, getting ready for the memorial. Jughead slips out as soon as their attention is on something else, making up an excuse about going to make sure his dad will turn up. He has no idea where FP is, and isn’t sure he cares if his dad shows his face at this memorial; he’s not sure where FP stands with the Blossoms right now anyway. Instead, he makes his way to the garage door, murmurs the transposition spell under his breath, and opens the door to the underside of the Sweetwater Bridge. 

There are a couple bridges in and out of Riverdale—the docks on the South Side, the smaller bridges that connect Riverdale to Greendale—but the big one is the Sweetwater Bridge. Big by Maine standards, anyway. It’s always cold, and down below the river is rushing, singing to him. _Hello, hello, hello._ He checks out the door of the maintenance room, sees no one, and slips out and locks it behind him, shoving his hands back into his pockets to keep from getting oil or something worse on Fred’s suit. A few dozen yards down, at the base of the slope leading up to the maintenance room, there’s the homeless encampment that he’d fled to after Doc had been murdered. There are no tents down there he recognizes, though one of the dogs does perk up, looking up at him and settling when she recognizes his scent. He’d left this place when he’d landed the job at the Twilight, but people here know him still. If he’s seen, it’ll be a problem.

Razz, softly, says, **_Breathe, Juggie._**

His lungs are straining. Jughead does not take a breath. It smells of mildew and mold and urine here. He keeps his mouth shut until he’s out from beneath the bridge, and climbing the steep hill up to the sidewalk leading across the bridge.

The Witches’ Accord is simple on paper. There’s a barrier between Riverdale and Greendale, to protect each side from each other. Even after the Accord had been signed, and the Church of Night and the Circle had stopped killing each other, the barrier had stayed up, to keep trespassers from crossing over to each side. For Jughead and Toni to get to Greendale to see the Spellmans, Toni had had to contact the Greendale coven, let them know a Serpent had business on the other side of the River. The same is true for Greendale witches; if one wants to come to Riverdale, they have to either have a contact to let them in on the Riverdale side, or find a hole in the barrier. And part of his father’s job, Jughead thinks, watching the bridge, is to make sure there are no holes.

The issue is that his dad isn’t great at his job. No wonder Cheryl had been able to row Jason to Greendale; the barrier between one town and the other grows more like Swiss cheese the older Jughead gets. Toni had only contacted the Church of Night as a politeness thing. They really could have just walked in. And any Greendale witch could stride right into Pickens Park and start murdering mortals as they pleased.

_I need you to come into the Circle early. We need your backup. I can start teaching you the rites as soon as you take the tattoo. It’d be a help, boy._

Jughead reaches a hand up to the ring he keeps on a chain, closes his hand around it. The Snake almost shudders at his touch. It should, by all rights, still be on FP’s finger. Instead, Jughead hides it around his neck like a thief.

 ** _There,_** says Razz. She’s poked her head out of his suit jacket pocket. **_That one._**

There’s a big black car, more like a hearse, purring across the bridge, stopping politely in the center. Jughead tucks the ring away under the collar of his shirt, and lifts his hand to the air between him and the hearse, taking a breath.

“I greet Zelda Spellman of the Church of Night and welcome her to Circle land.”

There’s no visible barrier, but the air seems to ripple anyway. Jughead holds it, just for a moment—below him, the River sings, softly, _welcome, Zelda_ —and then drops his hand, stepping aside to let the car rumble its way to the Riverdale side of the bridge. It stops, next to him, purring like a wildcat. The passenger side window rolls down.

“Get in,” says Zelda Spellman.

Jughead does not argue. He gets in the car, slams the door, and pulls the seatbelt across his chest, careful not to crush Razz.

Zelda Spellman appears to be in her forties, though she’s almost as old as Thomas, he thinks. Her red hair is down around her shoulders, her sunglasses jet black and bottlecap round. She has a thin veil tucked over her face, and her mourning dress, something right out of the forties, covers her from neck to ankle, sleeves fading into lacey gloves that end midway down her fingers. She resettles her hands on the wheel, perfectly at ten and two, and turns her face back to the road.

She doesn’t know anything about Betty. He knows that, for sure. He’d made it clear yesterday that her cousin—he’d never given them Betty’s name—was under Circle protection. _His_ protection. That the only way she’d first meet her, her _and_ her sister, would be through him. Zelda in particular had pitched an unholy fit, and had almost come across the table at him, but Hilda, the quieter one, had agreed. Without him, he thinks, there’s no way Zelda will figure out which of the teenage girls at this memorial is her cousin. That at least guarantees his safety and probably all his limbs up to Thornhill’s gates. Judging from the way she’s tapping one long fingernail against the leather steering wheel, she’s about ready to rip his guts out with her bare hands. It’s a tentative balance.

 ** _She doesn’t have a familiar_** , Razz says. Her voice is a whisper, even though Zelda can’t hear her. She squirms a little in his pocket, and he shifts his elbow, just enough to hide it. **_I can’t sense a spirit or goblin anywhere._**

Jughead digests that. Not having a familiar goblin is—rare, especially for a Church of Night witch. Maybe she’d had one and it died.

 ** _Don’t you dare sass her, Jughead,_** says Razz. **_She could rip you apart._**

He doesn’t have to hear that twice.

Zelda Spellman is silent for the first half of the forty-minute drive from the Sweetwater Bridge up to Thornhill. She focuses on the road, though sometimes the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention as if she’s watching him; whenever he turns, she’s always focused on traffic again, or on the sign that reads _Welcome to Riverdale_ , or the light above the intersection where Pop’s is nestled, like a haven, on the edge of town. She seems to know where she’s going, though. She turns on Market, and takes the unnamed road that leads out of town towards Thornhill without hesitation, the ancient blinker ticking like a time bomb in the dash.

“How long have you known her?” Zelda says, finally, as the road gets darker, more shadowed. Jughead, chin in his hand, elbow against the window, glances at her out of the corner of his eye. There is only one _her_ she could be referencing, but he’s still tempted to say, _Who_?

“Ten years,” Jughead says after a moment, and turns back to the window. He can make out Zelda’s reflection off the old glass, how she turns her head just enough to see him before refocusing on the road up to the Blossoms’ house. “I went to mortal school. I met her in kindergarten.”

“Your mother allowed that?” Zelda scoffs. “The Gladys Lovecraft _I_ knew fifty years ago would never. The Circle must have changed her priorities.”

Jughead bites the inside of his cheek to hold in the _and I’m guessing you knew my mom so well when you and she were eating people together in 1968_. He shrugs instead, and stares hard at the glass. He doesn’t want to think about his mother.

“And you expect me to believe that in ten years of knowing—my niece—you and your family were completely oblivious to the fact that she had magic?”

Jughead says, “I don’t care what you believe.”

Razz hisses. **_Jughead._**

Something vibrates. Part of the stick shift. Zelda grips the stick, shifts to another gear, and the hearse starts the slow climb up the hill. It makes him remember Lavender, and her demand to bring Betty to the car shop. Jughead pushes that out of his head too. It’s not the time. Today, he and Betty are going to have to break their best friend’s heart, and, hopefully, keep the Spellman sisters from murdering Hal and Alice Cooper. He’s not sure which will be harder, at this point.

His phone buzzes.

_Lodge: Can’t get away from Cheryl long enough to come meet you @ gate. Séance was intense. Jason said Polly is pregnant. Please come upstairs as soon as you get here!!! –B._

_Polly’s pregnant._ What had Betty said her dad had told her about Polly? _She’s sick._ Some sickness. He can feel Zelda’s eyes on him again as Jughead taps out _ok, be there in 10_ before closing his phone down and shoving it back into his pocket.

“We didn’t know,” says Zelda after a long breath of silence.

Jughead turns, and looks at her. Her lips are pressed thin. Her fingers flex against the wheel of the car, the lacy gloves stretching with the movement.

“What?”

“Mortimer was—separate from us.” She stops. “Younger. He was in his final years at the Academy, but—he was still a child. If we had known he’d sired a half-witch, she would not have left our sight.”

He knows that. He’s known that since the warlock Ambrose opened the door to him and Toni in Greendale. It’s why he hasn’t told them Betty’s name, or where she lives, or what kind of ice cream she likes to eat. It’s why he’s kept her secrets, and decided to leave it to her, to introduce herself, to make the first move. Betty deserves that choice, to have this family in her life or not. Even though it’s Betty’s decision, the thought of her being taken away makes his chest ache. Jughead doesn’t say anything. If he talks now, he’ll get his ass ejected from the hearse and have to walk the rest of the way to Thornhill, and that’s if he’s lucky.

“Did her mother know what Mortimer was?” says Zelda, and the unspoken question is, _Is Betty’s mother a witch hunter? Did she kill my cousin_?

Jughead says, “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

Zelda’s nostrils flare. Then, under her breath, she says, “Damn that stupid, reckless boy.”

Razz shuffles in Jughead’s pocket. She says, **_We need to ask Thomas and Lavender about Mortimer. The barrier worked, back then. Someone would have had to have let him into Riverdale so he could meet Alice, and it would have to be on the Riverdale side._**

He files that away for later thought.

“Let me be clear,” says Zelda, and pulls to a stop in front of Thornhill’s gate. The gate, on a sensor, begins to swing open. “I—appreciate—your honesty in coming forward. But if in future you make any attempt to keep my niece from me, I don’t give a heaven’s toss about you, or your father, or the Circle, or the Accord. I _will_ be taking her back, I swear on every circle of Hell. And if you try to stop me, I _will_ kill you, little Serpent Prince. Is that understood?”

In his pocket, Razz tucks into a tight, spiky ball, and makes a hissing cry that Jughead does _not_ like. She’s on the verge, he thinks. Ready to flare into spirit form, all long, taloned fingers and teeth, ready to shred Zelda Spellman into tiny pieces. Shadows are spilling out of his pocket like smoke, lashing at the dashboard, the windows, tearing one perfect arc into the leather passenger side seat. **_DO NOT TOUCH HIM_** , she says, and it echoes in his head, louder than a klaxon. Aloud, it sounds like a shriek, like metal grating against metal, like hurricane wind peeling tin off a roof. **_NEVER TOUCH HIM_**.

“Razz,” he says, after a long moment, and the surge of smoke rushing back into his pocket almost knocks him sideways. Razz is his familiar, his spirit, his friend, but she also _knows_ this tone. Usually, she listens to it. He’s never seen her so angry before, though. “Ease up.”

**_If she tries anything with you I’ll rip her in half._ **

He strokes his pocket with two fingers. Zelda jerks, like she’s heard it too, and looks at Jughead’s pocket before meeting his gaze again.

“I brought you here to meet her,” says Jughead. “I came to you in the first place because _she_ needed it. It’s _her choice_ if she wants to go with you or not. If you or anyone in your family tries to take her and she doesn’t want to go, I’ll burn the Accord with your body myself.”

Zelda doesn’t scoff, not like he expects. She looks at him, and he looks at her, magic broiling, Razz hissing like a steaming kettle in his pocket. Then the clang of the gate attracts her attention. She looks back to the road, and puts the car into drive.

“Then we’re clear,” she says.

Jughead strokes Razz back down to size, until she’s nothing but a quivering ball of rage and spines. When the car scrapes to a stop, he’s out in the air before Zelda can say another word.

It feels like the whole of the North Side has packed itself in like a tray of sardines at a fish market. The Mayor is here, he recognizes her car; both Alice and Hal Cooper, parked side by side and clearly talking over the hood of Alice’s car, for all that he can’t make out their words; the entirety of the Riverdale High School football team, complete in team jerseys, probably as some kind of fucked-up, macabre homage to Jason. When he skims the windows on the second floor, he can see Veronica peering out of one; she waggles her fingers, and then steps back from the window, vanishing deeper into the house. 

“Eugh,” says Zelda, and slams the door on the driver’s side. She’s lit a cigarette in its holder, holding it away from her as if it’s a cocktail. “What a vile place to live.”

Jughead doesn’t say anything. He can’t disagree. Betty had said that this place felt like it was pulling on Ell, and he can’t feel that—he’s fairly sure only familiars could feel that sort of thing—but it _does_ feel a little disgusting. Feels like Blossom, he thinks, and scuffs his worn shoe over the gravel. Feels like entitlement and white privilege and centuries of spilled blood.

“Satan in hell,” says Zelda. “They have eternity roses.”

“What?”

“Don’t touch them,” she says. She eyes the rose bushes by the front door as if they’re wild animals. “Like as not they’ve been ordered to poison every enemy of the family.”

“You’re joking.”

“I don’t _joke_.” Zelda scoffs. “Particularly not about eternity roses. What do you take me for? Now—if I remember correctly I am supposed to be your plus one to this—event. Show me to my niece.”

“She’s not your niece,” says Jughead, automatically. “If anything she’s your cousin. _Second-_ cousin. Cousin’s daughter.”

Zelda takes a deep breath of the cigarette, and taps ash out with a delicate flick of her finger. “Satan save me from pagan warlocks who think they’ve seen it all. Just—get me inside this wretched house, boy.”

**_Jughead, just do it, please. We have to find Betty anyway._ **

Razz, not Zelda, is what convinces him. He jerks his head, and when Zelda comes around, offers an imperious hand, he grits his teeth and puts his elbow up for her to take it. Like it’s some kind of formal dance. She extinguishes her cigarette with a twist of her wrist, and tucks the cigarette holder back into her bag without looking. “I’ll go find her,” he says, as they make their way up the stairs towards Penelope Blossom, who is greeting everyone who comes in. “You should just—”

“ _You_ ,” says Zelda, “should let me handle myself, and go get _my niece_ out from wherever she’s been tucked away so you fulfill _your_ end of the bargain and _she_ doesn’t wind up used as fertilizer in Penelope’s garden.”

“She’s fine,” says Jughead, through his teeth. “She’s protected.”

“That only counts for so much when she’s _here_ ,” says Zelda, half under her breath. He’d rather spit flame than admit she’s right. “Let me handle Penelope. You go inside.”

“I—” 

“Zelda,” says Penelope, and _shit_ , he knew this would be unpleasant, but he hadn’t quite pictured the level of vitriol that would be aimed his way. “And—you. What a surprise.”

“Penelope, darling.” Zelda lets him go, and lifts the veil fully away from her face to press a kiss to Penelope’s cheek. Her blood-red lipstick comes away in a smear. “Sorry to barge in without an invite, but after everything you and dear Clifford have been through my sister and I thought it best if we came as backup, as it were.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that,” says Penelope, who is smiling the same way a viper smiles, before they sink in fangs. “If we needed you, dear, we would have called.”

“Oh, nonsense, we were out this way anyway, and we wanted to pay proper respects to dear Jason, as we didn’t get the chance last week.” Zelda’s thin smile is more mongoose, he thinks. Don’t mongooses eat snakes? “I’m sure you know Forsythe, Penelope, dear; you and his father have quite the history, after all—”

“I wouldn’t say _that_ necessarily, Zelda—”

“I’m gonna,” says Jughead, and ducks away from them both before Penelope Blossom unhinges her jaw and eats him, like some Lovecraftian nightmare. 

Betty’s text had said _upstairs_ , but there are so many people down here it’s difficult to keep track of where to look. Val, Josie, and Melody are crammed into a corner, Val holding Melody around the shoulders as Melody dabs her eyes with a handkerchief; Mayor McCoy and Sheriff Keller are talking in the hallway, Mayor McCoy’s political smile never dropping even when the lines around her eyes crease with frustration at whatever the Sheriff is telling her. Jughead turns his back on _them_ very quickly, glancing into one room—empty, though there’s a fairly impressive amount of older men in here, like an old smoking room—before squeezing past a gaggle of Bulldogs to get into the room set up for the memorial. Jason’s coffin is white as bone, gleaming in the slats of morning sun coming in through the window. People have already begun to take their seats, though Fred and Archie aren’t here yet. Kevin is; he’s diddling around on his phone as an excuse to hide the fact that he’s watching Moose’s ass in jeans. Jughead coughs, and Kevin almost drops his phone.

“ _Jesus_ ,” says Kevin. “You’re a fucking _cat_. Warn someone, for—”

“Sorry,” says Jughead. He is not at all sorry. He’s not quite sure what Betty sees in Kevin, and he can’t say that they’re friends, or barely even acquaintances; they’re just people who know each other, and a means to an end. “Have you seen Betty?”

“No, I was going to text her and then I remembered she doesn’t have a phone right now.” Kevin’s wide eyes get wider, concerned. “She’s not with you?”

“She stayed here last night.”

“You weren’t with her?”

Jughead scowls. “You think Cheryl would let me through the door?”

**_Be nice, Jughead._ **

He ignores Razz.

“Good point.” Kevin hesitates. “Um, look—I know we don’t know each other very well, but—”

“I kind of have to find her,” says Jughead, because he is _not_ in the mood for a shovel talk, or whatever this is going to be, considering how Veronica and Archie and now, apparently, Kevin will not _shut up_ about how him spending so much time with Betty must mean they’re dating. He does not have the energy, the time, or the wit for this. “Do you know how to get upstairs?”

“There’s a staircase through there, I can—”

“I’ll find it,” says Jughead, then, as an afterthought, says, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” says Kevin, sounding a little startled. Jughead’s already turned away.

There are more people crammed into the hallway—Grundy’s here, he sees, tucked against the wall with a cup of water in her hand, and that, at least, is a good sign—and a velvet rope set up over the stairwell, along with a calligraphed sign that reads _No Guests Upstairs_. Jughead promptly ignores it, murmuring a _notice-me-not_ charm— _eyes away, you cannot see, I’m not here, you don’t see me_ —before ducking under the rope and taking the stairs two at a time.

It’s dimmer up here, darker. The rumble of the memorial has gone quiet, as if he’s passed through a sound bubble. Here, there is nothing; dust motes in the air, a handful of closed doors. The window he’d seen Veronica through had been three down from the center of the building, on the righthand side; if he orients himself properly, that means it would be the third door on the right. It’s closed, though, and when he knocks, there’s no answer.

A _rrf_ at the end of the hall has him pausing. It’s Ellemanzer. The hyena shakes his head up and down, and comes padding down the hall up to him, knocking his head hard into Jughead’s knee. It’s an electric shock, jolting up through his spine. Even if Betty doesn’t know about familiar ethics, he thinks, _Ell_ should know not to touch other witches. But Ell hasn’t seemed to have boundaries with him. Not yet, anyway.

“Hi,” he says, after a moment. It’s difficult, talking through the sudden knot in his throat. “Do you know where she is?”

Ell’s tail wags in a funny little circle.

Razz says, **_Follow him. He’ll take us there._**

He’d been going the wrong way. Ell passes by the top of the stairs without hesitating, going down another corridor that Jughead hadn’t noticed at first. He should have expected a labyrinth, he thinks; a lot of witch houses are hexed to keep strangers lost at all times, to make sure they never find what they’re looking for. They pass paintings and strange photographs; on one wall, Jughead counts five separate spears, one that looks as if it’s been dipped in fresh blood. Then Ell stops, in front of a nondescript door, and lets his tongue loll out his mouth. He scrapes at the door with one paw.

“ _Again_? Betty, you have to teach your familiar that he can’t be pawing at doors all the time like some kind of puppy-dog, he’s perfectly capable of—Oh.”

It’s Veronica. Pyewacket the cat is perched on her shoulder again, like some absurd, nouveau riche sort of scarf; the cat’s green eyes narrow at the sight of Jughead, before he sneezes, sounding derisive. Razz mutters, **_Well, nice to see you too, rich boy_** under her breath. Jughead bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “Hello,” says Veronica after a moment. “Did you bring the potion?”

Jughead touches the pocket of his jacket. “Right here.”

“You’ll still need me to—”

“Yes,” he says, because he doesn’t want to just—say what they’re planning in the hallway of _Thornhill_. “Yes, I do, Veronica. Where’s Betty?”

“Inside, trying to get Cheryl dressed.” Veronica’s eyes soften, almost sympathetic. “It—the séance kind of sucked last night. Jason possessed Betty—”

“He did _what_ ,” says Jughead, because the back of his neck just turned icy, his hands just went cold, _possessed_ , Betty hadn’t mentioned anything, she hadn’t _said_ — “He did _what?_ ”

“—and Polly’s pregnant and honestly I think Cheryl’s just kind of catatonic, so I’m not sure if she’s even going to be at the memorial at this point—”

 _Screw the memorial_ , he almost says. He closes his hands into fists. “I need to talk to her.”

“Cheryl?”

“ _No_ ,” he snaps. “Why— _Betty._ I need to talk to Betty.”

“You don’t need to be snippy,” says Veronica, primly. “She’s right here.” With that, she steps away from the door, and says, “Bettykins, it’s for you!”

“Me?” says Betty, and something, some rod that’d been jammed through his spine, unwinds. If she sounds that exasperated, he thinks, then the séance couldn’t have been too awful. “If it’s Mrs. Blossom again—”

“It’s Jughead, if you _must_ know—”

“Oh,” says Betty, and then she’s at the door, and she looks—he doesn’t quite have a word for how she looks. He writes, he thinks, and he can’t fucking describe how she looks. Relieved. Tired. Annoyed. She looks at him, at his face, and then stops. “Hi.”

Jughead blinks. Whatever _that_ tone is, he doesn’t have the mind to chase it right now. He takes her arm, pulls her away from the door, into the hall, away from Cheryl and Veronica, away from _whatever_ is going on. “Hey,” he says, and he can’t help it. He braces his thumb to her bare arm, trying to resist the urge to find the pulse in her wrist and measure her heartbeat. “You’re okay?”

Betty’s eyes drop. She looks at the floor. “Did Veronica tell you about—”

“Yeah.”

She takes a breath. “I’m not okay,” she says, after a moment. “But I don’t—have time to look at that right now. Penelope Blossom came up and yelled at Cheryl when I went to make tea so it’s been an absolute disaster up here for the last twenty minutes and we just have to get downstairs because the memorial is starting—”

“Betty—”

“And then we have to—”

“I have everything,” he says, and she looks up at him. Her eyes drag, just for a moment, across him, across the suit, up to his throat, to his face. His ears burn. _Don’t,_ he tells himself. _Don’t think about that. It doesn’t mean what you think._ “It’s okay.”

Betty watches him, for a long moment. Her eyes are red-rimmed, though she’s done a good job hiding it with makeup; her nails are painted black, which is something he’s never seen on her before. It’s odd, but it also makes his belly go tight, her long fingers with sharp black nails. Like a witch, he thinks. Then, with an odd little sound, Betty rests her head to his shoulder, and stays there. She doesn’t say anything. She barely seems to breathe. She tucks herself against his chest, careful to avoid the side where he usually keeps Razz, and Jughead automatically puts one arm around her shoulders, rests his nose and mouth to her temple. He doesn’t say a word. Ell—he’d forgotten about Ell—pushes his nose in between their knees, letting his eyes droop closed.

“I can’t talk about it yet,” she says. Her voice is damp. “After. Okay?”

He nods. Right now, he thinks, he’d do just about anything she wanted, just to keep her close. “Okay,” he says into her hair. Then, because he has to: “No more trips to Thornhill without me. Not unless you’re going to break into their safe and steal all their valuables. Okay?”

Betty hiccups out a laugh, and her hand closes into a fist in the jacket. Her nails scratch, ever so gently, against his back. “Definitely not,” she says. Then: “I have to go back in in a minute, but can I—just—”

“Yeah,” says Jughead, and loops his arm closer around her shoulders to hold her. “Sure.”

They don’t move for a long time. 


	24. Wicked Curse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A curse is cast. Secrets are overturned. Betty Cooper has one hell of a day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for: 
> 
> \--discussion of statutory rape / sexual assault by a teacher. Mostly oblique, but present.   
> \--Alice is her charming self.  
> \--Hal is his charming self.   
> \--Controlling Parent Vibes Out The Wazoo.  
> \--Reggie's dad is also here but he's like a blip on the radar and doesn't do anything too shitty.   
> \--Reggie is....misogynist af here because s1 Reggie.  
> \--discussions of grief  
> \--discussions of Alzheimers  
> \--presentation of time-slipping / loss of memory / Alzheimers symptoms   
> \--presentation of panic attacks / breakdowns / emotional meltdowns / emotional catatonia   
> \--memory of violent death / experiencing a violent death secondhand  
> \--description of a rotting corpse  
> \--teenage insecurities, though..../Veronica Voice/ Forget it, kids. It's Riverdale. 
> 
> Uhhhhhh I think? That's it? Aside from something happening Very Publicly in a way that is Decidedly Not Canon so....hold onto your butts, y'all.

It’d seemed like a straightforward plan, when she’d laid it out for Jughead in the  _ Blue & Gold _ office.

It was clear to Betty—and to Jughead, she thinks, stealing another look at him as Veronica fusses over Cheryl—that Archie would not believe Grundy had raped other boys until he heard it aloud. That Grundy herself, as embedded as she has become in the fabric of Riverdale, would not leave unless she were killed, or outed as a predator. Betty, despite everything, doesn’t think she has the stomach for killing. At the same time, however, she didn’t—doesn’t—want to move on with her life knowing that Grundy is somewhere else, preying on more boys. More teenage victims, like Archie, like Ben Button. Betty doesn’t believe in the death penalty, not really, but nor does she think she’ll be able to sleep at night, knowing that Grundy is still out there. And what she’d said at first is still true: prison doesn’t work, not in situations like this. Women like Grundy, or men like Grundy, don’t often get long prison sentences. People will say that Archie  _ wanted it _ .

So. This plan—laid out carefully, with Veronica’s aid in the periphery—had been their compromise. Grundy will live, she thinks, but it will be at the cost of everything else. Her reputation as a teacher, her liberty as a person, everything. The memorial is the perfect place for this, with all of Riverdale, witches and hunters and mortals, crammed into one room to hear it. And Archie may hate them both for it, if he ever learns what they’ve done. What they’re planning to do.

It’d been simple, before Cheryl, and the séance, and the Spellmans. Now, she’s not sure it’s going to work at all.

_ Deal with Grundy. Deal with the Spellmans. Go home. _

“It’ll be fine.” It’s Jughead. He curls his fingers around her shoulder, and it sears warm through the fabric of her borrowed dress in the instant before he drops his hand away. They’d come downstairs to talk out of earshot of Cheryl or Veronica, to get away from the haunted bedrooms of the Blossom twins while she filled him in on everything that had happened in quick, broad strokes, Nana Rose and the séance and the possession, but now, down here, she just—feels exposed. She wants Jughead’s hand back on her shoulder. It steadied her, somehow. “It’ll be fine, Betty.”

She takes a breath, and lets it loose again. “Am I being that obvious?”

“Not really.” He looks over at the coffin, gleaming in the sun, before stepping a bit closer to her, hidden where she is in a nook beside the swinging kitchen doors. His hip bumps against hers, and then away again. “This is just usually about the time when you start second-guessing everything.”

Betty glances away.

“It’ll work,” he says. “If Veronica holds up her end, it’ll work. We just need a space to do our half without attracting too much attention. Not that I don’t  _ love _ Sheriff Keller being here, and everything, but I figured this will work better if I don’t get led away in handcuffs halfway through it.”

It’s meant to be a joke. It makes her stomach curdle anyway. Betty bites the inside of her cheek, and looks at him, Jughead in his borrowed suit and sarcasm, shielded under layers. “I thought—maybe outside. No one will be in the rose garden except maybe Nana Rose, but she won’t care.”

“Can we get out there without being noticed?”

“Yeah. It’s just—if it doesn’t—”

“It’ll work,” he says. “So long as Veronica does what we need, it’ll work.”

“What’ll work?”

They both jump, Betty in shock, Jughead away from her, until there’s a good foot of space between them and a look on his face that shifts and twists like fog. Archie’s face twists too, when he sees Betty. Clearly, he hadn’t seen her in the shadows behind Jughead, and hadn’t wanted to come speak to her, at all. It doesn’t hurt the way it would have a week ago, a few days ago. She hasn’t talked to him since they got Jughead out of the Sheriff’s office, she thinks. He looks—okay. He’s in the Bulldogs jacket and clean jeans, and he seems to be completely unable to meet her eyes.

“Oh,” says Archie, after a moment. “Betty. I didn’t—know you were over here.”

Betty wets her lips, and says, in a cracking voice: “Surprise?”

Jughead, between them, says, “Wow. This is  _ not  _ tense in the  _ slightest _ .”

Betty sidesteps to shove her elbow into his ribs.

“Yeah,” says Archie after a moment. “So—what’ll work?”

“I’m planning something for Cheryl,” says Betty. Jughead opens his mouth, and then closes it again immediately. “This whole thing has been really hard on her, so me and Veronica were planning something, and I was just—getting anxious about it because maybe she won’t like it. Right, Juggie?”

Jughead’s eyebrows hike up his forehead. He says, “…yeah.”

“That’s—really cool, actually.” Archie hesitates. “Cheryl’s—kind of bonkers but—yeah. I’m sure she’s been having a really hard time. Veronica and Val both said she wasn’t in a great place right now.”

_ She lost her brother and felt him die in the most horrible way I can imagine, of course she’s not in a great place. _ She’d felt it too, during the séance. She can’t blame Cheryl for being the way she is. Not after that. “I don’t think any of us are in a good place, right now,” says Betty, and then clears her throat. She turns to Jughead. “You—have that thing, right? The—stuff I asked you to get?”

“Oh—yeah.” Jughead dips a hand into his pocket, comes away with a small bottle. He puts it in her hand. “You don’t need more than a few drops.”

“What is it?” asks Archie, curiously.

“Herbal sleep aid,” says Jughead, before Betty can hesitate. “I know someone who makes teas and stuff. Part of—”

“—a care package,” says Betty. “Cause—that’s what we’re doing for Cheryl. Veronica and I have it upstairs in one of the guest rooms, we’re going to give it to her after—after the memorial.”

“Oh,” says Archie. His eyebrows draw together. “Is that what you guys have been so secretive about the last few days?”

“Uh, yeah. Pretty much.” Betty slips the potion into her dress pocket. “I’m—going to go check on Cheryl and Veronica. They should have come down by now. See you guys later.”

“Yeah,” says Jughead.

Archie, awkwardly, says, “Bye, Betty.”

She bolts, and tries to pretend she doesn’t feel two sets of eyes on her back.

_ Deal with Grundy, deal with the Spellmans, go home. _

The room that’s been set up for the memorial is full, now, or nearly. She can see her dad standing at the bar with a glass of something golden; her mother on the other side of the bar with chardonnay and an angry twist to her mouth as she talks to Hermione Lodge. Hilda Spellman is seated near the front, talking to a tall woman with red-blonde hair and a cigarette holder in one hand.  _ That must be Zelda Spellman _ , Betty thinks, and swallows hard. Despite the height difference, the different body types, they have the same look in their eyes, Hilda and Zelda. Something ancient. She can’t introduce herself yet. She can’t let them notice her.  _ Not yet, not now, not until after.  _ Aside from Nana Rose, who has been parked in the corner of the room with a plate of cheese that she hasn’t touched, the Blossoms are nowhere to be seen. Presumably, Cliff and Penelope are waiting to make some kind of grand entrance. The memorial is supposed to start in five minutes, though, so they’ll arrive soon. Betty ducks under the  _ No Guests Upstairs  _ rope on the stairwell and taking the steps two at a time, back up to the second floor.

Veronica’s holding Pyewacket in front of Cheryl’s bedroom door, talking softly to him. When she sees Betty, she lets her familiar go.

“Cheryl’s almost ready,” she says. “The tea helped.”

“Oh. Good.” Betty smooths the skirt to the borrowed dress down before giving Veronica the small bottle. It looks, she thinks, like a hot sauce bottle that’s had its label peeled off. Inside, there’s a murky, purplish liquid, thick as jam. “That’s for Grundy.”

Veronica gives it a professional glance, uncaps it and sniffs. Her nose wrinkles. “ _ Judas _ , this is strong. You really want to give her this?”

“Jughead said it’d work.”

“He brewed this?”

“Yeah.”

“Hm,” says Veronica, and gives it another, more thoughtful glance-over. “The pagan pulls through. Three drops into her glass of chardonnay and she’d tell you her life story if you asked.”

“We don’t need her life story, just—for her to tell the truth about—Archie.” Betty glances at Cheryl’s bedroom door. “You think you can do it? All of it?”

“Please.” Veronica snaps open her little clutch, and puts the bottle of truth potion inside. “This is like taking candy from—well, a mortal baby. Can you wait with her? She said she was almost ready but I just want to make sure she’s okay.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Veronica searches Betty’s face. “You look—frazzled.”

“Ran into Archie downstairs, that’s all.”

“Betty—”

“It’s nothing.” Betty tugs a smile up onto her face. “Really. Just—awkward.”

Veronica bites her lip, watching Betty. “Like—he’s having an affair with his teacher and you don’t approve awkward, or he turned you down after the spring formal awkward, or you haven’t talked since all the delicious drama went down at the Sheriff’s station awkward?”

“It’s—”  _ Not an affair.  _ She bites her tongue on that. “Can’t it be all of the above?” says Betty instead. “You go ahead, I’ll wait up here with Cheryl until she’s ready.”

“You sure?” Veronica sets her teeth in her lower lip. “She’s—not doing too great. Her mom really got into her head about the memorial.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Veronica smooths her dress down. “I—tried telling her that she’s allowed to come to her own twin’s memorial, but I don’t know if she heard me. I think what happened at the séance really hit her hard.”

“She’s not the only one,” Betty says, half under her breath. Then: “I’ll wait with her. It’s fine. And if she doesn’t feel up to coming, then—then I’ll be down in a minute or two.”

“You sure?” says Veronica again.

“Absolutely.”

Veronica frowns. Still, she can’t push harder, not with a time crunch and not without attracting attention, even if it’s only from Cheryl. She says, “Okay, then, if you say so,” and then kneels to stroke one hand down Pyewacket’s tail before starting her quick-march down the hall to the staircase.

Betty smooths her dress down again, and then opens Cheryl’s bedroom door.

The room beyond is dark. Cheryl’s pulled the curtains, in the time between Betty leaving with Jughead and her return; a single light has been lit beside her bed, but beyond that, the room’s a pool of shadows. Ell comes to Betty’s side without a word, bumps his head up against her hand in a hello before leaping onto the end of Cheryl’s bed and curling into a small ball. Pyewacket, in his turn, vanishes beneath the mattress, leaving only his long, fluffy tail to twitch back and forth across the expensive Persian rug.

Cheryl is seated at the end of her bed, her hands folded delicately in her lap. She’s in all black, a bit of lace pinned to the top of her head, covering her hair; her dress is short but decent, the collar high, and her shoes—boots—cover her ankles, leaving most of her leg bare beneath a netted set of stockings. She does not look up when Betty comes in, just says, “I wondered when you’d come back.”

Betty hesitates. Then, carefully, she shuts the door, cutting off the light that’s been pouring into the room. “I had to talk to Jughead about Grundy,” she says. “Veronica said you’re getting ready.”

“I was.” Cheryl turns her hands palm-up on her lap, and looks at them, at her gloves. “I suppose I  _ am  _ ready.”

Ell, still curled into his ball, says, in a miserable little voice:  **_She’s been like this since you left_ ** .

Betty frowns. Then, carefully, she sits down next to Cheryl. She doesn’t touch her. She has a feeling that touching Cheryl right now could end very badly. “Where’s Belial?”

Cheryl makes a vague gesture. “In the flowerpot.”

Betty looks at the flowerpot that’s stationed on Cheryl’s side table. She can’t immediately see the snake, but she supposes he must be there; Cheryl wouldn’t have said so otherwise. “Oh.”

“My mother told me that if I came down today she’d make me regret ever being born,” says Cheryl, after a moment. Her mouth turns upwards, almost ghoulish. “Before I told them I wanted you and Veronica here to spend the night. Isn’t that funny?”

_ Oh, god.  _ She’s not sure she has time for this. The memorial’s supposed to start in five minutes, Veronica will be dosing Grundy with the truth potion, and she has to be downstairs and ready to ask the questions she needs to ask, but—her insides twist into knots. Cheryl looks  _ lost _ . And—

_ We witches are few and far between. We may fight amongst ourselves, but we will always side with each other over witch hunters. Or any mortals. _

_ Cheryl is important. _

Ell whines.

“Cheryl—” Betty takes a breath. She says, softly: “That’s horrible. Your mother is horrible.”

As if she hasn’t heard her, Cheryl shakes her head. “I shouldn’t be going down to the memorial. I wasn’t a good enough sister to go to his memorial. I didn’t even know he was—”

She stops. In her lap, Cheryl’s hands twist and turn. Betty thinks of worms, the way earthworms wriggle up out of the earth after a rainstorm, and wind their way across sidewalks only to dry up and shrivel to death in the heat of the sun.

“He was my brother,” says Cheryl. She takes a breath. Her eyes are wet, tears beading up on her lashes. “We swore when we were ten that we’d tell each other everything. We made a blood pact. And he didn’t tell me that he was running away because he got a mortal girl pregnant.”

Betty says nothing. She knits her fingers together in her own lap.

_ Jason gave Polly a ring. Polly is going to have a half-witch baby. Polly was pregnant and I never knew. _

“I was prepared,” says Cheryl. She says it in a dull little voice, not quite beyond a whisper. In her lap, her hands are still twisting. “I was prepared to—to do everything we were supposed to do. I told him the truth, that I’d—I’d never be a good—a good wife or—or any of it, because I’m not—I don’t—men aren’t—” She stops, and presses her lips together, the first bit of real emotion she’s shown, and then presses on. “But I _would_. Because Jason was my twin _._ He was my twin and he was everything to me, the way we were supposed to be. We shared _everything_ , I thought. But he couldn’t even tell me that he got your sister pregnant before he ran away. Before he was murdered. So I must have been a—a worse sister than I thought I was. He must have—not trusted me with it. He must have thought I’d turn against him.”

“Cheryl,” says Betty, and then she shifts, up off the bed to come to stand in front of Cheryl, crouching down to clasp her hands over Cheryl’s in her lap. Cheryl’s gloved hands scrape at her scabs. “No, that’s—look, you can be—a lot, sometimes, but—you weren’t a terrible sister.”

“Wasn’t I?” Cheryl hasn’t even looked at her. She stares, back stiff as a gravestone, directly at the wall. “If I were a better one, he’d have told me. If I were a better one, he’d have come when I did a séance on my own, without any of you there. He’d have possessed  _ me _ last night. Not  _ you. _ ”

Betty doesn’t know what to say to this. She doesn’t know enough about magic; doesn’t know enough about ghosts; doesn’t know how to console someone who has lost everything they hold dear. She squeezes Cheryl’s hands, and tries to think of something to say. Nothing comes out.

“He possessed  _ you _ .” Cheryl looks at her. There’s no hate, or anger, really. Just something soul-deep, some grief Betty doesn’t understand. “We  _ shared magic _ . Our whole lives. We were— _ always  _ together. He  _ always  _ protected me. At—at the Academy, here at home,  _ always.  _ And he possessed  _ you _ . He chose you over me. He chose  _ your sister  _ over me. I’m—”

She stops, and turns her face away. Betty looks at Ell, still curled up on the bed. Ell scrapes one paw down the side of his face, awkwardly, and says nothing.

“He didn’t choose me over you,” says Betty, softly. “Or—Polly over you. He promised he’d come back and get you. You told me that, remember? He said he was going to come back for you once he and Polly had found a place to live.”

“Well, he didn’t.” Cheryl tugs her hands out of Betty’s, but doesn’t move away. She doesn’t try to stand. “He left me alone here. He took our magic and he took our life and he left me alone here, and now I have to keep living through his murder, over and over and over, because every time I look at someone I have to wonder if they’re the one who  _ killed him _ .”

Her stomach squeezes, rolls. Betty braces her hands on her knees to keep balanced in her crouch, not wanting to move away from Cheryl in case Cheryl flees, not sure she can move without Cheryl attacking. “I’m sorry,” she says, after a time. Her throat knots. “I—I got—a taste—of that when I was—in the séance. What happened to him. I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t want anyone to feel that. Not you, or Jason. Or anyone.”

Cheryl’s dark eyes widen, her lashes stuck together with tears. “You—felt—?” 

“I don’t really know what I felt.”

“But—you felt him die?” Cheryl moves before Betty can think, grips her hands and holds them tight. “What else did you feel? Did you—did you hear anything, see anyone—”

_ The Sweetwater _ , she almost says. Betty bites it back. “The stones,” she says. “And—a man. A hunter, I think. I didn’t recognize his voice. Asking him—Jason—to repent. Jason said no. He was—praying. I think. When he—died.”

“Praying?”

“ _ O, mighty Dark Lord _ ,” says Betty. “ _ By whom all is set afire _ . Something like that.”

Cheryl lets out a gasping laugh. She squeezes Betty’s hands tighter. “Our Unholy Father. That’s the first prayer all—all Church of Night witches learn. It’s the most—” She takes a breath. “ _ O, Mighty Dark Lord, by whom all things are set afire, thy power be thy path, Thy will be my desire, in Hell as it is on Earth, praise Satan. _ ”

“Yeah,” says Betty. “That.”

Cheryl’s hands close tighter around Betty’s, so tight that her bones ache. She looks at Betty as if she’d like to swallow her whole, not in want, but just in desperation, a knowledge that someone else shares a trauma that can never be undone.

“I’m not a good sister, either,” says Betty, abruptly. She swallows back the knot in her throat. She’s never thought about it this way, but—but maybe— “I—I left, for the summer. For LA, for an internship. And—Polly had my number, y’know? Polly—I texted Polly almost every day. I talked to her all the time. But she didn’t—tell me anything about any of this. She didn’t tell me about—about Jason, or about her baby, or—or about them running away together. I told her—everything about me. And she didn’t do the same for me.”

“It’s not the same,” says Cheryl. “Your sister is just missing. My brother was  _ murdered _ .”

“I know,” says Betty. “But—she didn’t pick me either. She wasn’t even going to tell me she left.” Betty’s throat locks. “At least—you got to say goodbye to Jason. Polly didn’t—Polly didn’t even leave me a message. Believe me, when I got back, I—I looked through her room, trying to find a clue about what happened, about where she might be and why my parents wouldn’t tell me what was going on. I couldn’t find  _ anything. _ Not anywhere. There was—nothing. She just was going to be—gone, when I came back. Without saying anything at all. So—she must not have trusted me, either.”

Cheryl’s eyes dart, back and forth, over Betty’s face.

“This is your brother’s memorial,” says Betty. She shifts, stands, still holding Cheryl’s fingers in hers. “You’re allowed to mourn, Cheryl. You’re—you’re  _ allowed  _ to be at your own brother’s funeral. I know Veronica told you that. And—and I agree with her. You’re allowed to miss him. You’re allowed to be in pain. And—and you’re allowed to be angry with him, too. For not—saying anything. For not telling you. Even—even if he’s gone. Just because he’s dead doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to be angry at him anymore.”

Cheryl looks down at their clasped hands. She says, “Mm.”

Betty deflates. Whatever she’d been trying to say, she’s lost it, now. It’s floated away like a butterfly on a strong air current, far out of her reach. “I can—leave you alone,” she says. “I’ll—tell your mom that you’ll be—”

Cheryl’s nails nip hard into her palms. “No,” says Cheryl. She takes a breath, and then looks Betty right in the eye, her crimson lips pressing thin. “No, help me with my dress. And you, cat—” This at Pyewacket, who has peeked his head out from beneath the ruffled bed skirt to watch them with large green eyes. “You go get Veronica. I want—I want her with me.” She looks up at Betty again, and then says, “I want both of you with me.”

Pyewacket doesn’t make a sound. He just slips out from beneath the bed, and the door opens on its own to free him, his tail up like a flag. Ell lifts his head from his paws and watches them both. He still hasn’t said much. Betty wonders if he’s trying not to break whatever fragile trust has been built in this room. If he says something, if he takes Betty’s attention away from Cheryl now, it could shatter.

“Want us for what?” says Betty, feeling a bit swept away. Cheryl stands, and turns her back, drawing her long red hair out of the way so Betty can get at the back of her dress.

“To say goodbye to my brother,” says Cheryl. “I don’t know that I can do this alone.”

Betty bites her lip.

“We don’t have much time,” Cheryl snaps, and it’s so much of the  _ old  _ Cheryl, Red Queen Cheryl, that Betty jumps. “We have to get downstairs before the memorial starts.”

“Right,” says Betty, and starts undoing the buttons on Cheryl’s dress. “Sorry.”

It takes a moment before Cheryl shifts. She turns her head, just enough that she can see Betty out of the corner of her eye. Then, very softly, she says, “I don’t say this very often, so—you won’t get me to repeat it. But—thank you.”

This time, when Betty smiles, it’s real. She puts her hand to Cheryl’s shoulder, squeezes gently, and Cheryl, to her surprise, puts her hand up to cover Betty’s. Her nail polish is blood red.

“Witches stick together,” Betty says, after a moment, and goes back to undoing the buttons. “You told me that last night. Remember?”

Before Cheryl turns back to face the wall, Betty sees her lips curve up into a tiny smile.

.

.

.

“This is a nightmare,” says Kevin, and cranes his neck to look at the crowd. “This is like—actually a goddamn nightmare.”

Jughead, in his own seat, doesn’t respond. He barely even really hears what Kevin says; he’s watching Grundy and Veronica, across the room, Veronica turning up with two glasses of punch and offering one to Grundy as if to say,  _ I saw you alone and wanted to say hi _ . Grundy takes a sip of it as he watches, and Razz, in his pocket, says,  **_Has she taken it yet?_ **

He taps two fingers to his pocket, the signal they established years ago for  _ it’s going good _ , before turning to Kevin. “What?”

“Like—a  _ nightmare _ .” Kevin widens his eyes, and for a second, he looks like—well, a manic puppet. “How does anyone live in this house when it’s like—right out of the set of  _ Clue _ ?”

“I think they like it that way, Kevin,” says Jughead. “Lots of closets to hide the bodies of debauched maids.”  _ And probably lots of secret passages so the family can watch the mortals without ever being seen. _ He wouldn’t be surprised if that’s where Cliff and Penelope Blossom are right now. Standing in the walls and watching for just the right moment. “Haven’t you been here before?”

“Not in  _ daylight _ ,” says Kevin, half-horror, half-delight. “They have a stuffed leopard’s head in the smoking room. It’s like—wrong on  _ so many levels _ .”

“They do?” says Archie, abruptly coming out of his own head. He hasn’t said much of anything since Betty vanished back up the stairs. Jughead’s too much of a coward to ask what’s on his mind. He’s been watching, though, and every few minutes, Archie’s eyes dart to Grundy, like she’s got some kind of magnet on her skin that draws his attention no matter what. As Jughead watches, Grundy catches Archie watching, and smiles at him. Jughead turns away from it. “I didn’t see it. Is it on the ceiling?”

“They have like, hunting trophies from  _ all over  _ in there, it’s like some— _ Pride and Prejudice and Zombies- _ level weird. And did you see the grandmother?”

Nana Rose—or an old woman that really, could  _ only  _ be the Blossom matriarch—is still settled in the corner of the room. She’s been turned so her chair faces out the window, but so far as Jughead can tell, no one’s come to speak to her. Not since he’s been downstairs. A few yards away, the Spellman sisters are whispering to each other. Hilda keeps looking between him and her sister, anxiously, muttering into Zelda’s ear.

“—like the crypt keeper,” says Kevin, delightedly. “They even have that massively ugly headshot of Jason set up, like—literally Thornhill is Riverdale’s Manderly.”

“More like Bly Manor,” says Jughead under his breath. Ghosts and possessions and murder and madness, with the dead Jason as Thornhill’s Peter Quint. He stands, abruptly. “I’m going to go find Betty.”

“Relax, dude, she’s fine.” Archie grabs the cuff of his sleeve. Across the room, Veronica notices, too, and she gives him a  _ look,  _ a  _ sit down, I’ve got this _ look. Jughead, who is fairly sure that Veronica’s never had to handle anything her own damn self her whole trust-fund-princess life, gnaws the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. His cracked tooth hurts like a motherfucker. The pain medication he’d taken must be wearing off. “She said she was upstairs with Cheryl.”

“Because  _ fine  _ and  _ Cheryl Blossom  _ just go hand in hand.”

“ _ Fine  _ and  _ Cheryl Blossom  _ are the same thing, dude.” It’s Reggie, his own varsity jacket looking two sizes too small, stretching across his shoulders and chest in a way that could only be intentional, and not the product of too little money. He slings himself into the empty seat next to Kevin, behind Jughead and Archie, and leans forward to ruffle through Archie’s hair. Archie lets go of Jughead’s sleeve to bat the hand away. “Never seen anyone so fuckin’ fine in my goddamn  _ life. _ Just because  _ you've _ never looked at a girl in your life doesn't make her any less hot, circus freak." 

**_Charming,_** says Razz. **_If Cheryl hears him, do you think she'd_** **_rip his head off first, or his prick?_**

Jughead covers a snort up with an abrupt cough. 

"Anyway, Andrews, what's your take on the Princess Blossom situation?" Reggie leans forward, whispering. "You think once the memorial’s over she’d be, y’know, down to clown? Hardy to party?”

“You’re such a troglodyte, Reggie,” says Jughead, before he can keep his mouth shut. “She just lost her twin brother. I don’t think she’s  _ down to clown  _ with anyone, least of all someone who’s gunning for his old job chasing a ball across a fake lawn.”

Reggie’s jovial mood snaps away in an instant; he’s half on his feet before Kevin grabs his arm.

“Hey,” says Kevin. “Jesus. Both of you, stop it. This is a  _ funeral _ .”

“Yeah,” says Reggie, an ugly look crossing his face. “And  _ he’s  _ probably the one that killed Jason. Or did everybody forget that?”

“For fuck’s sake,” says Jughead. “You really can’t have more than one idea in your head at a time, can you?”

**_Jughead,_ ** Razz spits in his pocket.  **_Stop baiting him._ **

In the same moment, Archie snaps, “ _ Reggie, _ ” and then Archie’s on his feet, too, and the chair between him and Reggie screeches a bit when Archie pushes forward, putting his hands on Reggie’s chest to shove him back. “Reggie, stop it. Back  _ off _ .”

“Figures that you’d  _ defend  _ this fucking freak, Andrews, it’s not like you two haven’t been in each other’s back pockets since we were in kindergarten, what do you want to bet he has a little shrine to you in his closet like some kind of serial killing stalker—oh, I know, he killed Jason for  _ you _ , so you could try and make captain, I bet that’s the reason—”

“ _ Back off, _ ” says Archie, and this time his voice is so dangerous it draws eyes. The Spellman sisters are watching, too. So is Sheriff Keller. So is Mayor McCoy. Jughead backs up, out of Reggie’s reach. He can’t spell Reggie here, not in front of so many. Definitely not in front of witch hunters. “I told you to  _ let him be _ , for god’s sake, he didn’t do anything—”

“If he didn’t do anything then why’d the Twilight burn down, huh?” Reggie pushes Archie away from him, straightens out his varsity jacket. “If he didn’t  _ do anything _ , then why the  _ fuck  _ is he the only one who gets anything out of Jason’s death?  _ None of us  _ wanted him dead, not  _ one _ , but  _ you _ —”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jughead sees Veronica slip out of the room.

“ _ What _ is going on here?”

It’s Zelda Spellman. Her cigarette holder is gone. Behind her, Hilda frets with the edges of her handkerchief, but her eyes are hard, and her lips are pursed in a way that makes Jughead think of sour cherries. Archie’s eyes widen. So do Reggie’s. Kevin looks like he’s just seen the second coming of Christ. That, or he’s about to wet himself that a strange woman in Victorian gloves looks ready to murder all of them, slowly, probably with forceps.

**_Jug_ ** , says Razz.

“It’s nothing,” says Jughead, and steps back, out of Reggie’s reach. Zelda’s eyes snap to him, for a moment. There’s something broiling in the air, at a far distance, like a stormcloud forming. “Just an argument. It’s fine.”

Hilda hesitates, and then reaches out with one hand, and gently rests her fingers to Jughead’s elbow. Jughead tugs away from her.

“It was my understanding that this is a funeral,” says Zelda. The words crack against the chairs. “A memorial. Meant to  _ respect  _ the dead.”

“I—um.” Archie wets his lips. “Who are—”

“That’s beside the point,” says Zelda. “This is unseemly. And, as a matter of fact, it’s an insult. If you’ve accusations for anyone, young man, I suggest you save it for some other time. And as for  _ you _ —” she looks to Jughead “—I expected better.”

It  _ stings _ . Jughead opens his mouth, unsure what to say—to hit, to strike back, to snap,  _ you have no right to criticize me, you don’t know me, you don’t know what my life is like _ —but there’s a whisper, then. Movement.

“I appreciate it, Zelda,” says Penelope Blossom, in a sweet-as-honey voice, “but I believe I can manage things at my own son’s memorial, thank you very much.”

If you could crack air with a look, Jughead thinks, then it would happen in this moment. Zelda does not clear her throat, or look even slightly chagrined. She puts a little smile on her lips, and then says, “Well—Penelope—I simply wished to make things easier on you. Considering your loss.”

“I appreciate that, dear, but—”

“Mrs. Blossom,” says Archie, with all the grace of a moose on ice. “I—um—”

Penelope looks at him. Something, some odd expression, chases itself across her face. Slowly, as they all watch, she reaches up, and so, so very carefully brushes a strand of Archie’s hair, which had been knocked askew during his shoving match, back into place.

“Um,” says Archie, in a tone that Jughead recognizes as the  _ I am about to crap my pants  _ voice. “…Mrs. Blossom?”

Penelope doesn’t say anything.

“Penelope,” says Zelda, harshly, and grips Penelope by the arm. “Must I get you smelling salts or would you like a couch to faint on?”

“Oh,” says Penelope. Her voice is—odd. Distant. “Sorry. I—I apologize, you just look so much—What is it, Archibald?”

Archie shakes himself, and begins speaking, in a low, earnest voice. Jughead tunes out. There’s whispering behind them, murmurs. And beneath that, there’s—something. He can’t quite get his fingers on it, can’t quite feel it. Not quite magic, he doesn’t think. But—something close. Rolling, like waves on a shore. Deep, like the echo of a teardrop in a cave. Sharp, like the edge of shattered glass.

Next to him, Archie takes a breath, and Jughead feels it in his bones.

They’re hand in hand, the three of them. Betty is closest to them, and, he thinks, looks the most nervous. Her eyes dart to him, to Archie and Penelope, the Spellman sisters behind them, and then focus front, her left hand locked in Cheryl’s right. Cheryl is in white, her lips blood red, her eyes puffy, skin pale; she holds Betty like an anchor, as if she is about to be swept away. Her left hand is in Veronica’s, and out of all of them, Veronica is the one who seems the most comfortable. There is the smallest, wickedest smile playing about her lips, a  _ you can’t touch us  _ smile, a smile that belongs among knives and cats and claws.

“Holy shit,” says Kevin. “ _ Yes. _ ”

“Oh,” says Hilda, softly, and cups a hand to her mouth. “Oh, I was right, Zelds. I was right. It  _ is  _ her.”

**_Jughead_ ** , says Razz, softly into his mind.  **_Jughead, what is it?_ **

Three witches, he thinks. His mind, unbidden, flits to a triangle. Then:  _ Blossom, Lodge, and Spellman. _ His stomach caves in.  _ If Betty had more training, the three of them could rip Riverdale apart. _

For a moment, Jughead thinks time has stopped. It hasn’t. The three of them pass him, him and Archie and the Spellmans; pass the Blossoms, on their way to the podium beside Jason’s huge death-portrait, his school picture from last year, when they were all freshmen, before he disappeared. Betty and Veronica flank Cheryl like soldiers, like bodyguards, blonde and brunette in black, and when Cheryl releases their hands they remain beside her, Veronica with her fingers curled over one of Cheryl’s shoulders, and Betty with a palm to the small of her back. They stand there, the three of them, in front of the wooden box that holds Jason Blossom’s embalmed corpse, and Cheryl, in a loud, clear voice, says, “If you would like to take your seats, I think I would—like to start us off with a few words about my brother.”

When Jughead tears his eyes away from them, three witches by a coffin, he finds Zelda Spellman is staring daggers at his face. She doesn’t have to speak. The question is plain for all to see, right in her eyes.

Jughead tucks his chin in one half-nod, and looks to Betty again. When Zelda sinks into her seat, it’s with shaking hands. A few chairs over from Zelda, Sheriff Keller’s eyes have narrowed to raw, razor focus.

“Right,” says Jughead, and sits. He ignores Kevin, ignores Archie, ignores Reggie vibrating behind him with rage. He sits, and he folds his arms over his chest, and he looks, first to Veronica and Betty as they stand beside Cheryl, and then--it takes a moment, to find her--to Grundy. Fourth from the front, near the end of the row. He can’t make out her face, but there is a handkerchief in her hand, and a white rose, one which had been presented to all the memorial attendees by the Blossoms. Offerings, they’d said. To Jason’s memory. 

“Time to start the show,” says Jughead, under his breath. Just to Razz. Just to himself.

Razz laughs. 

.

.

.

The schedule for Jason Blossom’s memorial is this: 

First—words from his family. From his parents, supposedly. That had been the plan, Betty supposes. She, Veronica, and Cheryl have rather usurped that. But that had been the plan. Either way, family remarks had been scheduled, and family remarks are had. They sit on either side of Cheryl in the center of the front row after she has finished her speech, and remain there for the whole of Penelope and Cliff’s stories about how kind Jason was, how brilliant his academics were, how he was loved by his peers, how greatly he will be missed. The feel of dead and rotting hands on her shoulders press in close. All she can think of is a rolling storm across a great ocean bay. Betty can feel eyes burning into her back the whole while, and she does not turn around, because this is the last leg of it, and she needs to get through it before she loses her nerve.

Second—a chance for visitors to file beside the coffin. It will be buried tonight, after the guests leave, in the Thornhill family graveyard, but for now, it remains, some kind of grotesque circus display for the curious and the macabre. Betty doesn’t want to think about the fact that Jason’s body is  _ here, _ that the dead, rotting, fish-eaten face she saw out there in the river has been painted and made beautiful again with wax and makeup and staples and hair plugs for the balding patches, and is now resting beneath heavy wood. Painted white and buffed to a shine. Because nothing but the best, for a Blossom.

Then, third—a meal. Something light. One of Jason’s favorites. Buffet style, as not even Thornhill could manage such a large crowd in a single dining room. They all come into the room, her and Cheryl and Veronica behind Cliff and Penelope, and behind the three of them the whole of Riverdale lines up in single file to get the dinner that the Blossoms so begrudgingly offer. The one time Betty casts a look over her shoulder, she catches Kevin watching her. He mouths:  _ What the hell is going on? _

_ Later, _ Betty mouths back, and Kevin makes an X over his heart, a promise to track her down and kick her ass if she doesn’t explain herself. A few rows behind Kevin, ahead of Archie and Jughead but behind Hilda and her sister, Grundy is sipping the last of her punch. She’s still holding the white rose in her free hand. Behind Grundy is Alice. Behind Alice—

Betty’s stomach folds in on itself. Hal is here, looking at her. Her dad, who hates the Blossoms, is looking at her standing next to a Blossom. His face is pale, as if he hasn’t eaten. There are circles under his eyes. Blood pounds into her head. Betty reaches her free hand up, tangles her fingers in the chains, the crucifix and the pentacle. She swallows hard, and looks away from her father. 

_ Polly would have been here _ , Betty thinks, firmly to herself.  _ If she could, if Mom and Dad hadn’t done something to her, then Polly would have come. _ Polly wouldn’t have missed Jason’s funeral for the world.  _ If Dad hadn’t tried to make me out Jughead, then I wouldn’t have been staying at Veronica’s for the last week.  _

Nausea broils in her guts.

“I’m not hungry,” says Cheryl, and Betty comes back to herself. One of the caterers has just offered a plate of—something—to Cheryl, who shakes her head with pursed lips and slips her hand back into Betty’s, the other into Veronica’s. “We’re not hungry.”

Betty almost tells her  _ says you _ , and then realizes that if she eats now, she’ll puke it back up onto her shoes. Veronica lets out a sigh, and lifts a flute of something sparkling from the table they’re standing beside. Betty chooses to believe it’s Martinelli’s. 

“Well, we can sit down, I suppose.”

“This way,” says Betty after a moment, and she pulls them, Cheryl and Veronica, towards the distant corner of the room where Nana Rose sits alone. Cheryl doesn’t yank back or argue. She trails after Betty as if she is a fishing line, and when Betty lets go of her hand to pull a chair over, Cheryl sinks into it without a word. “Hi, Nana Rose.”

Nana Rose doesn’t say anything. Her eyes, one milky, the other grey, fix on Betty’s hair, follow a curl of it down over her shoulder to her sleeve to her wrist to her hands, curled around the back of Cheryl’s chair. Then, carefully, she focuses on her granddaughter.

“Hello, Nana,” says Cheryl. She almost hesitates. “Have you eaten?”

There’s a plate of cheese and crackers in Nana Rose’s lap which haven’t been touched, so Betty thinks this is kind of an idiotic question, but Cheryl can be excused. She was having a breakdown less than an hour ago. Veronica drags her own chair up and sits down too, crossing her legs neatly and tucking her ankles away beneath the fancy cherry wood. When Betty looks up, Jughead’s watching them from across the room. Hilda and Zelda are still in line for the catering. So is Grundy.

“So,” says Cheryl. She’s steadied out, now. Tucked herself away. She hasn’t looked at her parents once, Betty thinks. “I seem to recall you saying there was a certain incident you wanted to enact at my brother’s memorial.”

Nana Rose’s eyes track from Cheryl to Betty and back again. 

“It’s underway,” says Veronica smoothly, and takes a sip from her glass. “Just waiting for the opportune moment.” 

Cheryl’s gaze snaps to Grundy. Then it jumps to the buffet table, where Sheriff Keller and Mayor McCoy are talking quietly over couscous. 

“Acceptable,” says Cheryl. She turns to her grandmother. “Nana, did you want to speak for Jason at his memorial?”

Nana Rose blinks. “Jason? I don’t know a Jason.” 

Cheryl’s perfect lips thin. Her chin, for just a moment, trembles. Then the expression is smoothed away again. “That’s right,” she says, after a moment. “You wouldn’t. I suppose that’s luckier than the rest of us.”

“Why are all these people here?” says Nana Rose.

“It’ll be over soon, Nana.” 

“ _ Elizabeth _ .”

It’s her mother. Alice, who would have rather been caught dead in a negligee in the middle of a frozen Sweetwater than attend Jason Blossom’s memorial, is decked out in all black; her hair is pulled back severely from her face with a pin, and her eyeliner is perfectly dour. Behind her, Hal stands like a gargoyle, or a guardian angel, not saying a word. His mouth is locked in a frown. Betty takes a breath, and holds it.

Veronica reaches up, and squeezes her hand. 

“You can always come back,” she says, softly. “Always, B. Remember?” 

Cheryl twists her head to look at Betty and Veronica’s hands, locked together on the back of her chair.

“Yeah,” says Betty. “I remember.” She squeezes Veronica’s fingers. Then, carefully, she smooths her dress down, fluffs the ends of her hair—it’s loose, and she wishes she could adjust her ponytail; it gives her something to pull on, something to control—and squeezes Cheryl’s shoulder, just for a moment. “I’ll be right back. Okay?” 

Cheryl wrinkles her nose. “I suppose.”

“Don’t go anywhere,” says Betty, and gives Veronica one last look before turning to face the music. 

Alice doesn’t say anything at first. Betty presents herself, back straight like a soldier, head tipped up like her mother likes. They can’t be  _ too  _ bad right now, she thinks. It’s why she wanted to meet her mother here. There’s only so many things the Coopers are ever willing to say in public. Too much and their image of perfection gets shattered. Not that Betty hasn’t already done enough to wreck that all on her own, by getting hauled into the police department, running away from home,  _ turning out to be a witch _ . Her tongue shrivels up into something tough and dry and immovable. She has to work her throat a few times before saying, “I hope your business trip was good, Mom.” 

“Well,” says Alice. Her eyes are diamond hard. “Thank you. I’m sure I would have appreciated that sentiment before I had to speak to Hermione Lodge about where my  _ daughter  _ was.”

Betty winces. Something about how her mother says it cuts deep, deeper than she wants, deeper than she anticipated. She wets her lips. “Mom—” 

“We’re leaving,” says Alice, briskly, and her palms sting with sweat and torn scabs. “We’re not discussing this here. Inform—that  _ girl _ —that you will be going home early.” 

“No, Mom.” Betty does  _ not  _ keep her voice down. She speaks firmly, despite the way her hands are shaking. “I’m not going home. Cheryl is my friend, and she needs me to stay with her.”

“ _ Friends _ ,” says Hal, sudden, vicious. “You aren’t  _ friends. _ The Blossoms are everything that’s wrong with this town. The Blossoms are a cruel, vicious, hateful,  _ evil  _ family, and I will  _ not  _ have my daughter associating with—”

“Excuse me,” says a voice. It’s English, but not quite. Older. Husky. Betty’s spine is shot through with lightning, sharp and staticky and  _ vibrant _ . Betty turns and catches only glimpses; spiderwebbed gloves; reddish-blonde hair; Hilda, peeping around a tall and bony woman’s shoulder. “Are you this young woman’s parents?”

Hal stands straighter. He must be six inches taller than this woman—Zelda, Betty tells herself—but somehow he seems made small by her, by her energy or her command of the air around her. How pale and calm and  _ furious  _ she seems, in the wake of his red-faced rage. “Who are you?”

“Oh,” says Hilda, and then Hal suddenly seems to realize there’s more than one person staring him down. “I’m—that is to say, we—are visitors. Hilda and Zelda Spellman. From Spellman’s Mortuary, across the river. How d’you do.” 

_ Spellman _ , mouths her father. It’s as if Hal is searching for something in his memory he can’t quite find. Betty, in turn, looks to her mother, and it’s as if Alice has seen a nightmare come to life. All the blood has drained from her cheeks. Her lips are white beneath the makeup. She mouths it too,  _ Spellman, _ and her grip on Betty’s arm digs so deep her nails come close to cutting skin.

“We’re Mortimer’s cousins,” says Zelda. “We thought it high past time we speak.”

“Speak—now, look—” Hal looks from one of the Spellman sisters to the other. “I don’t know what newspaper story you want to talk to us about, but I’m having a private discussion with my family, so if you could—”

“Hal.”

“—give us a call at the office—”

“ _ Hal _ ,” says Alice, in a voice that Betty has  _ never  _ heard her mother use before. Hal clearly wasn’t either. He stops in his tracks. “It’s not about the paper.”

“Alice—”

“It’s not about the damn paper, Hal,” says Alice. Slowly, she releases Betty’s elbow. “I’m—how did you—”

She trails away, at a loss for words. 

“She sent us a message,” says Zelda, and Betty straightens. She almost can’t help herself. “And we came. That’s what you do when family calls.”

Hal opens his mouth, and shuts it again. “Family—I don’t—”

“Come on,” says Hilda. “We should speak outside. You stay here, dear,” she adds to Betty, and gives Betty’s free elbow a little squeeze as she passes. The little affectionate press of fingers almost shatters Betty to pieces. 

The four of them sweep out of the room, Zelda and Hilda, Alice and Hal, and in their wake Betty is shaking and on the verge of vomiting up everything she hasn’t eaten today, all over her borrowed shoes. Jughead waits for them to go, for the massive front door to Thornhill to slam shut behind them, before slinking out of the crowd. 

“You okay?”

Betty covers her nose and mouth with both hands. She takes a breath. Then, just as slowly, she releases it. “Fine,” she says.  _ My mother’s affair just got exposed and my dad’s going to get his heart broken and I have two cousins now who will want to spend time with me and I’m really not sure how any of this is going to work from now on, but I’m fine.  _ “We should go do our part.” 

He searches her face, and then nods. 

Outside, the air has turned cold, though if it’s due to the weather or the fact that Betty’s shaking with adrenalin, she will never be sure. Jughead pulls them around, away from the broad bay windows out into the hedge maze, until they’re in a nook of brickwork, beneath a massive statue of what looks like a minotaur. He takes a breath, and then pulls Razz from the interior pocket of his suit jacket, and puts her down on the ground. Razz snuffles at Betty’s ankle. 

“Shoo,” he says, after a moment. “I don’t want you caught in this.”

Razz gives him the most filthy look that a hedgehog can possibly give, and then waddles off to stand beside the minotaur statue, away from them and the odd little circle.

“Okay.” Jughead looks up at her. “Ready?”

“We don’t—need anything? No—circle, or—”

“No. Well, we would, but this is Thornhill. The whole place is shielded to make sure magic doesn’t get out of hand.” He takes a breath, and offers her both his hands, palms up. In his right hand is a picture of Grundy from the school yearbook. Betty lays her hands over his, so he’s gripping her wrists, and she’s gripping his. She fancies for a moment she can feel his heartbeat. The slick paper of the yearbook photo is a tattoo against her pulse. “Remember what you have to say?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” 

Betty closes her eyes. It’s easier, this time. Sinking down into the magic. A rush of pine and oak and maple, the heady earth of Fox Forest under her feet. She sinks deeper, and then she is home, in a space where she’s not sure where she ends and magic begins, caught in between reality and something beyond. She breathes, and she thinks steam emerges from between her lips. Just beyond, she can feel the rushing water pressure of Jughead’s magic. Like the Sweetwater, she thinks. Low and slow on the surface, but beneath there are wicked riptides that could catch you unawares. 

“ _ Who caught the woman? _ ” says Jughead, softly. She’s never done magic with Jughead before. The sense of the Sweetwater surges against her palms. Betty has to wet her lips and squeeze her eyes shut, sorting through her magic and his, trying to remember the spell. 

The words rise to her teeth. “ _ I, said the witchling. _ ” She wets her lower lip with her tongue. _ "With my wits and my wiles, I caught the woman. _ ”

Something, some wind, picks up around the nape of her neck. The scent of mud and pine grows stronger. 

“ _ Who saw her deeds _ ?” says Betty, and when she opens her eyes, Jughead’s are still closed. His lashes are fanning out like shadows over his cheek.

“ _ I, said the warlock. _ ” He opens his eyes then, and meets her gaze. “ _ With my watchful eye, I saw her deeds. Who’ll curse her steps _ ?”

“ _ We, said the witches _ ,” says Betty, and Jughead joins her only a beat behind, so it’s both of them, together, voices building and rising as the wind picks up around them. “ _ With our spells and our styles, we’ll curse her steps _ —” 

Between them, between their linked hands, a miniscule whirlwind is building in midair. It is not touching the earth, and yet dust erupts up between them as it grows. Betty watches it, the whirl of it, as she says, “ _ May she feel every stone _ —”   
  
“ _ Every word, every groan _ —”   
  
“ _ Every touch, every bite _ —”   
  
“ _ All the hate, all the spite _ —”

“ _ May she hunger for peace, for warmth and for life _ —”

“ _ May she seek and not find, and not weave, and not bind _ —”

“ _ Any boys to her heart _ —”

“ _ They shall flee in her wake _ —”

“ _ And her thirst shall not slake _ —”

“ _ All of her lifelong days _ .” 

Betty grips Jughead’s wrist tighter, and says, into the whirlwind: “I curse you, Geraldine Grundy—”

Jughead, immediately after: “We curse you, Jennifer Mary Molyneux—”

“—to living with the consequences of what you have done.” 

All at once, the whirlwind drops. Dust and leaves and old rose petals fall in a circle around them. Betty does not want to think about what her hair looks like. Jughead drops her hands, and as the yearbook photo falls away between them, it snaps into flame, smoke, and ash. It’s blown away before it hits the ground. 

“Jesus,” says Jughead, after a moment. 

Betty doesn’t speak. She bends, puts her hands to her knees to try and catch her breath. She feels like she just sprinted a mile; like she just danced as prima; like she took the lead in a River Vixens acrobatic performance. Winded, with awareness sparking all over her body, all through her muscles. Jughead’s cheeks are burning bright pink with exertion. 

“Yeah,” says Betty after a moment. Then: “Do you think it worked?”

“If it didn’t,” says Jughead, “then we have a whole new Gordian knot to untangle, Lisa Fremont.” 

The reference goes over her head. Betty takes another deep breath, and then tucks her arm through Jughead’s as Razz zooms her way back over to Jughead’s pant leg. Jughead doesn’t pick her up, not immediately, so Betty does, letting go of him just long enough to bend and scoop up the little hedgehog before leaning against him again. Her knees are a little shaky. Razz noodles her nose against Betty’s dress, and then makes a funny snuffling noise against Betty’s fingers. 

She should ask him about familiars, she thinks. But—later. 

“Let’s go back in,” she says, and hands Razz back to him. “I’m not too dusty?”

“You’re fine.” He hesitates. “Me?”

“Nothing.” 

“Right.” Jughead nods. “You first.”

Betty leads the way.

.

.

.

**_Ell was right_ ** , says Razz, as they slip back into Thornhill.  **_This place feels like it’s trying to eat our magic_ ** . 

Jughead frowns. He can’t respond to her, not now that they’re back inside with mortals, but he doesn’t like the sound of that. Next to him, Betty—who looks a bit windswept, but otherwise untouched from the curse they just cast—squeezes his elbow. “I’m going to go stand with Cheryl so Veronica can do the rest of her bit, okay?”

She doesn’t wait for a response. She frowns, stands on her toes to buss his cheek—something she’s been doing more often lately, and that makes his whole body burn—and then vanishes back into the crowd around Cheryl Blossom, near her terrifying grandmother. Josie, Val, and Melody have come to speak with Cheryl in Betty’s absence, but part like the Red Sea when she returns. Nobody had dared take her chair. Archie and Reggie and Kevin are circled behind them, a gaggle of teenagers in the wake of all these adults come to mourn a dead high schooler they barely even knew. In the moment, Sheriff Keller is nowhere to be seen. 

“Here we go,” he says, under his breath to Razz. 

Razz makes one of her rare chortling noises in his pocket. 

“Everyone!” says Veronica Lodge, and gets to her feet, tapping the knife from Nana Rose’s cheese plate on the rim of her pretty champagne glass. It’s Veronica Lodge. The whole room quiets at her command, and everyone, witches, mortals, and hunters alike, turns to look at the three of them again, three witches at the back of the room. “I wanted to get your attention.”

Penelope Blossom looks ready to spit fire. Jughead wonders what her familiar is. Something nasty, he supposes. 

“I was talking with Cheryl—” Cheryl looks up from her hands, but does not speak or smile; her dark eyes skim over the room “—about how I wasn’t lucky enough to meet Jason when he was here. We all have different perspectives on a person once they’re gone—” Veronica’s throat catches, and Jughead can’t tell if she’s acting or not “—and—and Cheryl wants her brother remembered just as he was. We’ve heard from family, and—and now we’d like to hear from friends. Anyone who knew Jason at Riverdale is welcome to speak.”

There’s a moment of hushed murmuring. Then, of all people—

“I’ll go,” says Reggie. He’s taken his varsity jacket off, and folded it over his arm, as if he’s going to use it like a bull baiter’s cloak. Behind him in the crowd, his dad looks on. “Jason was—Jason was our captain. He was a solid dude. I’ve never seen someone so fucking good with a football. Sorry,” he adds, when one of the older women clucks her tongue at him. “But it’s true. We used to call him Houdini in the locker room. It’s like he had magic fingers.” 

**_Yeah, I bet he did_ ** , says Razz. Jughead bites the inside of his cheek again.

Reggie suddenly seems to realize the whole room is looking at him. An awkward flush rushes into his cheeks. “So,” he says. “Yeah. Um. That—that was Jason.”

Then, with one awkward beat, he steps back. There’s a hum of hesitation.

“I’ll go,” says Josie, and Jughead honestly couldn’t have picked someone better to lead in to what they want. Josie—musical, talented Josie,  _ Josie and the Pussycats  _ Josie—would be a perfect lead into Jason’s independent study supervisor, cellist and music teacher. Josie takes a breath, lets it free. “Jason was—an enigma to a lot of us. He loved his sister—” She looks to Cheryl, nods once “—but he couldn’t be pinned down any other way. We were never sure what he’d do. And sometimes his unpredictability was irritating, but most of the time he was just—Jason.” She takes a breath, and wipes her eyes. “And we loved him for it.”

She retreats, so Melody and Val can loop their arms through hers. Next is Moose, and Jughead tunes out. He watches the crowd, for a moment. Reggie’s eased back to stand next to Archie, the pair of then talking back and forth. Veronica’s supervising, her black fingernails flared out against her cheek as she listens. Cheryl’s out of it, too, turning to stare out the window at the rose garden. 

“Betty?” says Veronica softly, after Moose retreats. “Why don’t you go?”

Betty’s lashes flicker. She looks up at Veronica, and if Jughead didn’t know she was orchestrating this, he never would have guessed. 

“I don’t know,” she says. Veronica reaches out, and rubs Betty’s shoulder, soothingly. 

“Your sister was his girlfriend. She’s not here, so—so I figured, you could get a chance to speak.”

There’s a rustle all around the room.  _ Polly was his girlfriend and she’s not here. Did she kill him? Did someone else? Where is Polly Cooper anyway?  _ Betty wears it well, their eyes, their questions. She squeezes Cheryl’s hand and doesn’t move from her seat, just steadies herself. 

“I didn’t know Jason well,” she says. Cheryl’s nails bite into Betty’s hand, but Betty does not flinch. “Like Josie said. He was a mystery. And since he’s been gone, I—I’ve learned a lot more about him than I knew before.” 

Cheryl tucks her chin closer to her chest. She does not let go of Betty’s hand. 

“If my sister Polly were here,” says Betty, “she’d tell you how happy Jason made her. She’d say that despite all their ups and downs, and how many times they broke up, they came back together again because they cared a lot about each other. I didn’t get a lot of chances to talk with Polly before she—went away—” Her eyes skitter around the room, as if seeking something “—but—but I know how much she loved him. I know how much he mattered to her. And if—if she were able to be here, I think she’d tell you that firsthand.” 

Archie’s watching Betty as if he’s seeing something foreign. Like someone else has been laid over Betty’s face, and he doesn’t recognize her. Jughead watches it, him, the pair of them, and feels something inside him retreat. He watches, he thinks. He is not a part of the story. He is only part of the sidelines. 

Something curdles in his throat. 

“I know he loved music,” says Betty, and Josie nods. “Ms. Grundy? You were his independent study teacher. Do you want to say something?”  ****

Archie’s shoulders go taut. Ms. Grundy, still holding her glass of punch—empty, now—goes wide-eyed, like a doe in headlights. 

“Oh,” says Ms. Grundy. “I—I don’t want to intrude on your memories of Jason.”

“I know you two were close,” says Betty. “You were his independent study teacher for most of last year. You must have talked.”

Grundy’s throat works. “We—did speak, yes.”

“Was he still dating my sister when you had sex with him?” says Betty. “Or was that during one of their breakups?” 

Grundy turns ashen. Her mouth opens and closes, and Jughead sees a speck of lipstick on her teeth, a smear that should not be there. Next to Betty, Cheryl has become very still, her eyes fixed on Grundy’s face. Rage, he thinks. Closely leashed. The rest of the room has gone quiet, quiet as earth, quiet as death. He’s not sure Kevin is even breathing. 

“She asked you a question, Miss Grundy,” says Cheryl, oh-so-softly. She coils, ready to strike. “It’s Jason’s funeral, after all. Don’t you think we should have the answer?” 

Grundy struggles. The tendons in her throat stand out. Her eyes grow—wide. Fearful. Something in them that says she knows something’s wrong, that she should be able to control her words and can’t, that it frightens her, but she can’t stop it. Betty meets her stare, and does not breathe. Jughead, on the sidelines, can’t help it. He looks at them  _ hard _ and wills it to happen.  _ Come on.  _ He does not blink.  _ Come on, Grundy. _

“He left me for her,” says Grundy. It’s hoarse, but clear. Not a whisper. Spoken aloud, openly. “We fought and he did it to spite me. We were happy and then he—” 

She shudders, and the words die. The town’s golden boy, Jughead thinks, with vile satisfaction. Nobody was more hated or loved than Jason Blossom. And now  _ everyone  _ knows what he was like. The vengeful side of him is curling like a happy cat.

Somewhere close, something shatters. A glass, bursting on the floor. It’s Archie, Jughead thinks, and the dragon roaring in triumph in his gut is cut through with pain, ragged and raw. Archie looks as if he’s just had his heart scooped out of him and cut in half. Freckles stand out like ink dots on his nose and cheeks. He takes one tattered breath. Another. 

“What?” says Archie. There’s almost nothing in his voice. No substance. Just—empty echos. Behind him, horror is slowly building on Fred Andrews’ face. “You and Jason?”

Grundy doesn’t shake her head. Tears fill her eyes, streak down her cheeks. She is, in that moment, fragile as a bird. Or she looks it. An excellent mimicry, he thinks. A performance of a lifetime. If she actually has genuine feelings for any of these boys, he’ll eat his goddamn hat. “Archie—”

“You slept with  _ Jason _ ?” Archie’s voice goes high, cracks at the ends. “You—so then I—did you—I was—”

Grundy takes one step forward. Another. Her eyes are fixed on Archie, darting all over his face. Betty moves in that moment, stepping between Grundy and Archie like a human shield. She looks in pain, too, Jughead realizes. And of course she would be. Archie’s hurting. Betty’s never been able to stop hurting for Archie, even if it comes close to ripping her into pieces. An ugly swell of  _ something  _ surges in his blood. “Archie, it wasn’t like that—”

“Stay the  _ hell away from my son _ ,” says Fred, and his voice is more snarl than human; he steps forward, past Archie, past Betty, until suddenly he is  _ too  _ close to Grundy, and something sick and thrilled rises up his throat because  _ now they know, now everyone knows what she is, what a monster she is _ —“You come near him and I swear to God—”

“Dad, it’s not—”

“I chose you at first because you were like him,” wails Geraldine Grundy, and folds her rose against her heart, pressing it close. Her game is fraying. She’s trying to keep control, but it’s not working. The curse must be starting, he thinks. She’s shifting like she can’t keep still. “But it wasn’t—after we slept together I realized it wasn’t—”

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” says Kevin. 

There’s almost no warning. Betty feels it, he thinks. Before it happens. So does Veronica. Cheryl  _ lunges, _ and it’s only Betty seizing one arm and Veronica seizing the other that keeps Cheryl from clawing out Geraldine Grundy’s eyes. 

“You—” Her voice is a hiss. “ _ You _ —” 

“Cheryl—”

“Get out,” says Cheryl, and the table beside them begins to shake. “ _ Get out of my house before I rip your throat out. _ ”

Grundy flees. She’s here and then gone in a moment, a flash of long hair and a rose petal. The French doors slam open, and then she’s gone, out into the labyrinth of hedges that the Blossoms call the maze garden. For a single pin drop moment, everyone is silent. Then the room erupts—Sheriff Keller speaking into his walkie-talkie as he makes his way out after Grundy into the garden; Kevin and Val and Josie and Reggie all talking at once; Archie’s stone-cracking silence; Fred, asking questions; Veronica, murmuring. The adults are shouting over each other. 

Betty shakes her head, blinks up at him. Her vision seems fuzzy. And it would be, he thinks. After a curse like that, she’s barely still standing. “What?”

“Are you okay?” he says, and she sighs. She shuts her eyes, rests her head to Cheryl’s shoulder—Cheryl stiffens, and then relaxes into it, sharp as pumice stone—and says:

“I really just want to go home now.” 

Betty’s eyes are shut. She doesn’t see the look he exchanges with Veronica, almost in spite of himself. Veronica might be prissy, might be a Satanist, but she cares about Betty. She’s proven that much. Slowly, Jughead reaches out, and brushes a finger over the back of Betty’s free hand to catch her attention. 

“No place like home,” he says, and Betty starts laughing. She laughs, laughs and laughs until she can no longer breathe. 

_ No place in the world like home. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Betty, honestly. She needs the longest fucking nap.


	25. A Great and Wicked Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a time for recovery. Alice finally returns home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: anxiety attacks, remembered trauma, discussion of self-harm (Betty's hands), casual reference to incest in media (Crimson Peak, specifically), abusive parents (Alice), drinking, drunkenness, discussion of morally ambiguous decisions made by Bughead. 
> 
> Happy Samhain, my witchlings!! (Pronounced " _sah_ -wen.") The Wiccan New Year begins at sundown on October 31, and ends at sundown on November 1, so it's the beginning of the Dark Time of Year and the end of the growing period on earth, and, per Wiccan tradition, the time of year where the barrier between our world and spirit worlds is thinnest. Maybe leave a little bowl of milk out for the Small Folk tonight!

The way back home is short, when you have a transposition door to help you along. 

She doesn’t leave immediately. She meant what she said to her mom about Cheryl. She stays at Thornhill until the memorial is over, until the last of the guests have trickled out. A lot of people leave almost immediately — the whole scandal about a music teacher at Riverdale High raping male students kind of puts people off the idea of reminiscing about Jason. Sheriff Keller comes in after about twenty minutes with no Grundy in hand, breaking off to speak with Penelope and Cliff and Cheryl. Mayor McCoy sticks around too. Probably to make a show of solidarity with the Blossoms, or offer support. 

Sheriff Keller catches her on the way out to ask if she’s willing to make a statement about her finding out about Grundy, about Archie, about Jason. Betty shakes her hair back out of her eyes, and says, “At school on Monday. I’m not coming back to the station. And — ” She darts a look at Jughead. “I’m bringing an attorney.”

Sheriff Keller looks around the room — searching for Hilda, maybe — before saying, “That’s acceptable.”

She shakes Sheriff Keller’s hand before she goes. Mortal sheriff, she thinks, for mortal crimes, and for this, Grundy is unmistakably mortal. Of course Keller would have to get involved. The codeswitching makes her dizzy. 

They use one of the doors upstairs to get to the Cooper house, Betty carrying her backpack and her high heels (which she is officially sick of wearing) through the door to Cheryl’s bedroom to wind up in her own. She hasn’t been here in a week, and a knot of anxiety at the nape of her neck falls away at the sight of her bed, and her things, and her posters, the makeup on her table. Caramel the Second is in a place of honor against her pillows, which is a miracle, considering her mother hates that she still sleeps with a plush. Ell pads in after her, his little tail spinning in circles as he scrambles all over to sniff everything, and Jughead awkwardly stands by the end of her bed, hands in his suit pockets. 

“You can stay,” says Betty softly. She tips her head. “I don’t think Mr. Andrews and — ”  _ Archie _ ; her heart tightens up “ — will be, um, remembering you were staying there last night.”

“No, probably not.” Jughead still hesitates. He turns away, fishes Razz out of his pocket to put her on the bedspread. Razz and Ell put their noses together for a good sniff. “Your parents will be back soon.”

“At this point, I really don’t care,” says Betty tiredly, and digs through her dresser drawers for clothes. “The stuff you used last time is in my closet. I’m going to shower.”

Ell makes a soft purring noise.  **_Can I get on the bed?_ **

“Yeah.” She crouches down, and lets her familiar knock his head to her chest, ears tickling at her collarbones. She bumps her forehead to his broad neck. “You can always get on the bed, Ell. I’m just — not sure when Mom and Dad will be back, so you might have to hide in the closet when they do.”

Ell’s tail wags, and it’s with him sticking his tongue in her ear that he says,  **_I can go under the bed if I have to._ **

“You’re not too big?” 

His whole butt wiggles.  **_I can squish. Or turn shadow. It’s okay._ **

Oh. Well. That makes things easier. She thinks of the shadow-creature that had been Ell, before he took his hyena form, with its long, razor fingers and wind-in-leaves voice, and wonders what would happen if her mother checked under her bed.  _ Is that where the monster under the bed legends came from? Familiars?  _ She doubts anyone is old enough to remember. “Okay,” says Betty, and he licks her cheek before she pulls away. “Help Jughead with blankets.”

Jughead, who looks as though he has a question perched on his tongue, abruptly flushes pink. “Uh — ” 

Ell, grinning, says,  **_Witchboy will help me with blankets._ **

Betty doesn’t translate that. She’s pretty sure Jughead gets the gist from the look on his face. “I’ll be back,” says Betty, and shuts herself into the bathroom off her room. 

The shower eases the ache in her shoulders that she had barely realized was there; her body wash stings against her bruised palms. Betty unfolds her hands under the spray of the showerhead, counting the scabs on each hand. Too many, she thinks, and lets the water run over her palms and fingers like a waterfall is dropping from her hands. Not for the first time, she thinks about gloves, but — the pain  _ helps _ . It helps ease the tension that builds up inside, even if she’s no longer worried about magical outbursts the way she used to be. And for all it’s September, it’s not cold enough for gloves yet. Everyone would ask what she was doing wearing them, and then she’d have to have an answer, and — no. She can keep going with this. Maybe there’s a way to hide bruises or scabs with a spell. Maybe Jughead or the Spellmans will know. 

_ It’s done.  _ She rests her palms to the glass door of the shower.  _ It’s over.  _ The steam is making her lungs hurt. The tea that Hilda made her, the one that eased the pain in her throat, finally seems to be wearing off; when she swallows, there’s a rough edge to it, like she has strep. There are deep bruises on her sternum, where someone did CPR on her. She hadn’t noticed them before, and she can only think that the tea helped with that too; they’re almost black now, and she touches the tips of her fingers to her bruises and takes a deep breath and relishes the ache of it.

She got possessed. She had someone else inside her head. Someone else in her mind. Someone else in her body. 

_ So push that decomposing asshole out of our head. _

Something cracks under her palm. The shower door. There’s a long, hair-thin break in the glass, arching from where she’d rested her right hand, all the way up to the top of the door. Like a bird has struck it. Betty yanks back, and says, softly, “Fuck.” Her hand closes around the pentacle. She breathes, in for seven, out for eleven. She’s not supposed to  _ have  _ surges with the pentacle on. But —

_ Push that decomposing asshole out of our head.  _

Betty showers until the water goes cold, and then stands there for a while longer, letting the chilly water run down her skin. 

Jughead must have ducked through a transposition door into the Andrews’ house while she was gone. The suit has vanished; he’s back in jeans and his boots, perched on the end of her bed while Razz snuffles around Caramel the Second. Ell’s sprawled across her comforter, and as soon as the door opens he lunges forward off the bed to jam his head into her knees.  **_You smell nice. I like your soaps._ **

“I like my soaps too,” says Betty, and rubs her hands over his ears. She feels awkward, all of a sudden. Jughead’s in jeans, and she just came out with wet hair and her rattiest pajamas. She maybe, potentially, misjudged this. “Hey.”

Jughead looks at her through his lashes for a moment. “Hey. I figured —in case your parents get here.”

“Oh.” That makes more sense. She pictures her parents coming into the room and finding Jughead in borrowed pajamas, in a sleeping bag on her floor, at barely two o’clock in the afternoon, and shuts her eyes against it. It’s too much after a day like this. “Okay.”

He must see something, in her face. “Are you okay?”

“I’m—”  _ Fine.  _ It catches in her sore throat. Betty makes a vague gesture back to the bathroom. “I broke the shower door.”

Jughead’s eyes widen. “Watch it, She-Hulk.”

“I don’t know, I was thinking about the—” She takes a breath. “I, um, don’t know how to fix it.”

“That’s easy. I can teach you tomorrow.” Jughead searches her eyes, and then looks away, down at the bedspread. He drags his fingers over the blanket in a sharp motion. Razz zooms after his hand, snuffling at his thumb. “If you want to sleep, I can—”

“I—” Betty twists her hands together. “A fter the s é anc e, I, um. I don’t want to be alone.”

Jughead looks at her, fingers stilling on the comforter. 

Terror snaps around her throat like a wolf. “I, um, I know Ell is here, but I—” 

“Betts.” His voice goes soft. “It’s okay. I can stay.” 

Her stomach’s churning when she clambers onto the bed. Ell ambles after her, springing from the carpet up onto her bed and curling so his head is resting on her thigh, eyes drooping close when she starts rubbing his ears. Razz nudges hard at Jughead’s fingers, and he starts trailing them around again, going back to the funny little chase game. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jughead says, after a moment. 

Betty catches Ell’s ear between her forefinger and thumb, rubbing hard. Ell’s foot starts twitching against the bedspread. “Not yet. It’s a lot.” She steals a look at him. “Do you think that the Spellmans will come find me after this?”

“You mean do you think they’re going to turn into your own personal ghosts like Tom Hiddleston in  _ Crimson Peak _ ?”

She wrinkles her nose at him. 

“Sorry. Maybe, uh, too apt with the Blossoms involved.” He cups his hand on the top of the comforter, and Razz zooms into it head first, her back feet wiggling like she’s trying to dig deeper. “Them talking to your parents is probably a good sign.” He considers. “Probably.”

“That’s reassuring.” 

Ell twists a little, tipping his head to look up at her.  **_I can always go find them if you want me to. They’ll probably recognize me now. Or one of their familiars can tell them who I am._ **

Betty shakes her head. “No, that’s okay. I’ll—I don’t think I can manage anything else today. Only, um, can you give me Mr. Webster’s number before Monday? I don’t want to go talk to Keller alone.”

Razz forces her way into Jughead’s hand, making his fingers spread, and then swivels around to poke her head out from the little cave she’s made. She sneezes.

“She says you should rest,” says Jughead. He rubs the end of his nose with his free hand. “I’ll—hang out here while you do that. If you want.”

She nods. “Mr. Webster—”

“I’ll ask him,” says Jughead. His mouth goes crooked. “Just take a nap for once, Cooper.”

It’s weirdly not as awkward as it could be, getting into bed with Jughead there in her room. She curls up on her side and watches him go through her bookshelf, picking something to read that isn’t one of her mother’s Approved Materials. He pulls something out, and she realizes, tucking her hand under her pillow, that it’s her copy of Toni Morrison’s  _ The Bluest Eye _ . Ell wriggles around, and rests his big hyena head to her ribs, letting out a deep sigh of contentment. 

**_You sleep,_ ** he says.  **_We’ll keep an eye out._ **

Betty tucks Caramel against her chest. Combining the weight of a hyena, the little snuffling sounds of Razz on her floor, and Jughead slowly turning pages, she’s asleep within minutes. 

She’d been worried about nightmares —maybe guilt over Grundy, though she feels none; stress from the  s é anc e, from being possessed— but she sleeps like her mom snuck Ambien into her hot chocolate. It must be hours later when she finally opens her eyes. The sun has set, and Jughead’s turned on her desk lamp, the book sitting on the floor with the dust cover marking a spot about two-thirds of the way through. A vague thought darts across her mind — _ I wonder if he’s read my notes on the marigold seeds yet _ —before Ell stirs next to her, and lifts his shaggy head.  **_Betty._ **

“Hey.” Her voice rasps. She ruffles his ears. Jughead, in the windowseat, straightens. “What time is it?”

He shifts, puts his feet back on the carpet. “Almost ten.” 

“Wait, seriously?” She slept for eight hours? “Crap. Sorry, I—”

“It’s fine.” Jughead lifts one shoulder in an awkward shrug. “You didn’t sleep after the séance, right?”

She hadn’t. With Cheryl and the possession and all the things that had come after, she’d barely even closed her eyes. “Not really.”

“Then you were tired.” He bends, and scoops  _ The Bluest Eye  _ up to rest it on his lap. “I’m not the person who’ll lecture people for sleeping more than their fair share.” 

Betty wrinkles her nose at him in half a smile. “Better not. Didn’t you win like—Best Napper at Little River Sprouts or something?”

“It was for  _ Most Consistent  _ Napper _ , _ thank you very much, Betty Cooper.” Ell clambers off her, and goes to Jughead, knocking his head up into Jughead’s hand for a pet. “And you probably needed it. Curses can take a lot of energy. So can a séance.” 

She smooths her hands over Caramel.

“I called Webster,” says Jughead. “He’ll come to the school on Monday when Keller shows up. He said he’d call the Sheriff to figure out when. I gave him your number too, so he might call.”

“Yeah?” Betty knits her fingers into the blankets. “Is that okay? He’s like —I know he was helping you with the Twilight thing—”

“He said it wasn’t a conflict,” says Jughead, and stands, leaving  _ The Bluest Eye  _ on the windowseat so he can sit on the end of her bed. “Whatever that means in legalese. Usually my only experience with lawyers is with Serpent lawyers and they’re—I don’t know a whole lot about lawyers in general but I get the feeling they’re a little underhanded. Especially Penny.” 

Betty just nods. “What’s Mr. Webster like?”

Jughead rubs the back of his neck. “You met him, at the station.”

“Yeah, but—I didn’t really talk to him. He went right in to go find you.”

“He’s kind of—” He waggles his hand. “Uhhhh, more Ahab than Ishmael, let’s say.”

“Oh.” 

“Yeah. But he’s the only lawyer around who will represent witches. And he’s good at it. So we all kind of just put up with him.” Jughead claps his hand to his thigh. “I don’t know how Mrs. Andrews knew him, but—”

“Mr. Andrews said she knew him when she went to law school.”

“Makes sense. He was pretty famous for a while there. I checked on Sleuther.” 

Betty nods, and tugs Caramel into her lap to pet the plush’s worn fur. 

“Oh.” Jughead digs into his jacket pocket, and produces her cell phone battery. Betty takes it, skimming the tips of her fingers over his palm. “I figured, since you’re back home.”

“Yeah.” She swings her legs out of the bed, goes to her backpack and digs her phone out of the bottom of it. When she goes to turn her phone on after putting the battery back in, the screen flashes a low battery sign. Betty crawls back into bed, and plugs her phone into the cord on her bedside table. “Did you ever hear my parents come in?”

“No.” 

That’s not a good sign. She watches her phone screen light up again, this time with a charging sign. “I’m sure it’ll be the carnival of a lifetime when they do.”

Something nudges at her fingers. Razz. She tucks the hedgehog into her lap, beside Caramel, and falls silent again. 

“Do you regret it?” Jughead asks, suddenly.

Betty tips her head, hair falling off her shoulder. “Regret what? Ditching my dad at the police station?” 

“No.” He rubs his nose again, anxiety coming off him in rippling waves. “I mean, sure, I guess. But I meant more like what happened with Grundy. What we did and everything.” 

Static crackles in her mouth. Betty looks up, sharply. “Do you regret it?”

“No, I just—” Jughead looks to her window, through it, to where Archie’s blinds are open. The room beyond is empty. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m fine.” Betty bites her lip. “I’m—I mean. That was—the risk. Right? That Archie would get hurt. We knew that at the start.”

Jughead looks at her. He doesn’t say anything. In her lap, Razz bumps her nose into Betty’s fingertips. 

“I don’t regret it,” says Betty. And she doesn’t. There’s something, that same viciousness from when she threatened to kill Cheryl, that same low, simmering rage when she walked into the room with Chuck, the broiling, bone-deep hatred she’d felt when she’d first heard from Dilton that Archie and Grundy were there, by the Sweetwater, the day the gunshot echoed through Riverdale, that makes it impossible for her to regret it. “I came up with the plan, remember? We talked it through, both of us. We knew Archie would get hurt. But—but there was no way to avoid that. And we couldn’t let her get away with it. Not just for Archie, but—Ben, too. Even Jason. She’s a monster. We couldn’t let her do it again.” She takes a breath. “Better for Archie to get hurt now, and get her punished, than Grundy be able to be out there and keep hurting other people the way she’s hurt him. And if that means Archie hates me for asking the question—” Her throat closes up. “Then he hates me.”

Ell doesn’t say anything. He rolls, just a little, to bump his nose to Betty’s knee. 

“Archie couldn’t hate you.” Jughead looks away from her, down at his knees. “I’m not sure it’s in him to hate anyone, but especially not you.”

_ Unlike the two of us. _ It goes unspoken. She and Jughead  _ can  _ hate people, and do, and, she thinks, they can do it easily. Archie’s a better person than either of them, with his softer heart. Betty can’t help it. She leans forward, seizes his hand off the bedspread, and squeezes it tight, his long fingers and warm palm with her bruised and scabby hand. Jughead looks at their hands, and then at her, squeezing tightly back. 

“Thanks, Jug,” she says. “That—it means a lot.”

Jughead looks down at their hands again, and then back up at her face. He wets his lips. “Betty,” he says, and then lets go of her fingers. “What you, um—said, last night. About me being important.”

It takes her a second. Betty’s neck goes hot. “Yeah?”

“I—” His ears are scarlet through his hair. Jughead looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here, but is determined to stay anyway as he says, “It meant a lot. To hear it.”

Her lips twitch, corners turning up without her permission. “Yeah?”

“And I know I said some—pretty reprehensible shit to you at the Twilight—”

“You apologized.” 

“Still.” He rubs his palms on his jeans. “I’ve—I know I’ve kind of been acting like a dick and keeping things from you about—me. And it was because I was scared of what you’d think of me, even though—anyway. I wanted to say—you’re important to me, too. And—I want you to know I trust you more than anyone. And that you’re my best friend. Okay?”

Something, some part of her, starts to ache. It feels like she’s had a balloon burst in her hands. Betty shoves the thought away, the vague sense of disappointment. She doesn’t  _ want  _ to be disappointed. She wants to be touched, and warm, and happy, and she  _ is _ , she’s all of those things, but there’s this nagging sense of deflation to it that she  _ cannot  _ look at. “Yeah,” she says, and her smile is genuine, even if there’s a tinge of something behind it she doesn’t want to feel. “And you’re mine, okay?”

Jughead’s smile is small, and sunny, and crinkles the corners of his eyes in a way that makes her heart hurt worse. “Yeah.” 

_ Stop this. _ She’s an emotional wreck after the last few days, and she’s probably just dealing with trauma. Or something. “Do you have someplace to sleep tonight?”

Jughead opens his mouth.

“That’s not that rotting treehouse,” Betty says, and his mouth snaps shut again quickly, a hint of guilt flashing into his eyes. 

“Your floor?” he says, after a moment, and Betty smiles at him, and it’s easy again, the odd sense of disappointment fading away like a mirage. 

“Good choice. Have you eaten anything?”

“I could always eat,” says Jughead, and she laughs. 

“Of course. Well, I can guarantee my dad hasn’t eaten anything but take-out the whole time he was here without me or my mom, so I—”

The last thing she expects to hear is the garage door opening. Betty’s room is right over the garage, and always has been; she’s always been the first to know when someone got home to Elm Street, whether it was because she heard Polly’s bike bell chime or because the rattle of the garage door at four in the morning dragged her out of sleep while her mom was out covering a story. Ell lifts his head from the bedspread, ears pricked, as the garage rattles underneath them. Jughead’s immediately on his feet, scooping Razz off the bedspread where she’s waddled to meet him. 

“I’ll text you,” he says, as he goes to her closet door. Betty nods. 

“Yeah. I’ll let you know everything’s okay.”

“Yeah,” says Jughead, and then stops. He comes back, and pulls her into a quick hug that makes her bones ache, her nose jamming so hard into his collarbone that it makes her eyes water. He lets go almost as fast, and he’s through her closet door and into someplace unknown before she can take a full breath. 

Betty looks back at Ell, who is giving her a look that she could  _ swear  _ is knowing. “What?”

**_Nothing_ ** . Ell licks his paws, and rests his head back on the bed again.  **_Do you want me to come downstairs with you?_ **

“No, you stay up here, it’ll be Mom and Dad and they shouldn’t see you.” She hesitates, and then grabs her bathrobe out of her closet, pulling it on over her braless chest and knotting the front closed. “I’m—gonna go talk to them.” 

Ell says,  **_If they’re mean to you, I’ll bite their heads off._ **

“That won’t be necessary, thank you,” says Betty, and closes her bedroom door with a snap behind her. 

The door in from the garage opens through the kitchen, so by the time Betty’s come down the stairs, her mom is already inside, throwing her car keys on the counter instead of hanging them on the key hanger, putting her coat on the back of the nearest chair. She’s still in the clothes she wore at Jason’s memorial, but her makeup is gone; she’s scrubbed it off, which Betty doesn’t think she’s  _ ever  _ seen. Alice Cooper is not the sort to be seen without makeup in public.

“Oh,” says Alice after a moment. She adjusts the fall of her coat, so it settles more cleanly on the back of the kitchen chair, and kicks her heels off, leaving them in the middle of the kitchen floor. “Betty. I thought you’d still be at the Lodges’.”

“I, um—didn’t want to overstay my welcome.” Betty looks at the closed door into the garage. “Is Dad outside?”

Alice’s hands go still against her coat, just for a moment. Then she turns, and goes into the fridge, pulling out a bottle of wine that Betty doesn’t recognize. “Your father will be staying at the  _ Register  _ offices for a few days,” says Alice, in a voice that puts ice in Betty’s heart. It’s completely calm. Detached, like she’s no longer feeling anything. “Until things calm down.”

“Until things—Mom, what happened at the memorial?” She stops, takes a breath. “Wait—Mom, are you  _ drunk _ ?”

“Considering it was  _ your  _ idea to pull the Spellmans into it,” says her mother, “I don’t know what else you expected to happen.”

Betty flinches. She wraps her bathrobe tighter around herself. 

“You know, your father and I spent the whole summer trying to protect you,” says Alice, and sloshes some of the chardonnay into a water glass. She puts the wine bottle down. “We are trying to  _ protect you  _ from going down the same path Polly did. And you turn around and run away from your father, stay with  _ Veronica Lodge  _ for a week, befriend  _ Cheryl Blossom,  _ for god’s sake, going digging into secrets you had  _ no business  _ looking into—”

“It  _ is  _ my business if you had an affair, Mom!” Betty grips the sleeves of her robe instead of digging her nails into her palms, desperate for something to hold onto. “It  _ is  _ my business if Mortimer Spellman is my father!” 

Alice’s face bleeds white. “Did  _ they  _ tell you about him?”

“It doesn’t matter who told me.” Her heart is thundering in her throat. “It doesn’t  _ matter  _ who told me, Mom—is it true?” 

Alice turns. She puts her back to the counter, leaning against it, and sips at her chardonnay. Then, slowly, carefully, she says, “I’m not talking about this.”

“Mom—”

“ _ No _ , Elizabeth.” Alice gestures to her, and a little bit of wine sloshes over the edge of her cup. She doesn’t seem to notice. “I’m not talking about this. Some things are secret for a  _ reason _ . And despite what you may think, you are  _ not  _ entitled to know every secret about this family.”

“I am if he’s my  _ father _ , Mom!” 

“Your  _ father _ —” Alice points again. “ _ Your  _ father is the man I married. He’s the man who  _ raised you _ . He’s the man who put bandaids on your knees and bought you a new bike and took you to church. Your father is  _ not  _ some—dead Serpent that no one’s ever heard of.  _ Your father  _ is Hal Cooper, Elizabeth. I suggest you get used to it.”

Alice grabs the bottle of wine, and brushes past Betty, heading for the stairs. Betty’s frozen, for a moment. Then—why won’t her hands stop shaking?—she turns, and follows. 

“But he’s not,” Betty says. “I know he’s not—”

“You don’t  _ know  _ anything.” Alice whirls, and her flat expression, her emotionless voice, is gone. Her eyes are  _ burning _ . “You don’t know anything, and no matter what those two—Greendale bitches told you—”

“Hilda and Zelda didn’t tell me  _ anything _ ,” Betty snaps. “I met the Founders, Mom. Thomas Topaz and Lavender Stirwell. They said  _ you  _ were a Serpent. They said you were—”

“Who the  _ hell _ —” Alice’s nostrils flare. “ _ That boy  _ brought you to them, didn’t he? FP Jones’s son? I  _ told you _ he was bad news, Elizabeth—” 

“ _ You lied to me, Mom _ .” Betty flings her hands in the air. “ _You_ lied to me . Not Jughead. Not Lavender.  _ You _ . You lied to me about Polly, you lied to me about my  _ father _ , you lied to me about  _ you _ —”

“I’m not listening to this.”

“Mom—”

“You are my daughter,” says Alice. “And I’m not listening to this. I’m going to go to my room, and I’m going to go to sleep, and  _ you _ , young lady, are going to—”

“ _ I’m not doing anything until you tell me the truth _ ,” Betty snaps, and she seizes the pentacle at her throat, gripping it hard. Her eyes are blurring. “Tell me the  _ truth _ , Mom. Tell me the truth, for  _ once _ .”

Alice looks at her, midway up the stairs. Her grip on the chardonnay bottle loosens, just slightly. For a moment, Betty thinks she’s going to drop it. Then, slowly, deliberately, Alice turns on her heel, putting her back to Betty, and walks away. 

Betty’s still standing at the base of the stairs when she hears her mother’s door shut, and lock.


	26. Interlude: Sabrina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation in the Spellman household.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly I can't think of any particular CWs other than smoking and some snark about people getting murked oops. 
> 
> ETA: I remembered that in this chapter, Theo is called Susie, and referred to with incorrect pronouns. At this point, Sabrina isn't aware that Theo is a boy, and Theo hasn't come out to her yet; ergo, the unfortunate deadnaming/misgendering. It'll be solved pretty quickly in comparison to canon, because as a trans person, I really....really could not stand writing Theo as female oops 
> 
> I also posted a full chapter yesterday! So if you didn't see/read that, read that first, otherwise you'll be confused.

As long as Sabrina can remember, Dr. Cerberus has been running his bookshop-cafe in Greendale. According to her aunties, it’s been around since about a year before she was born — almost two decades — and in all that time it hasn’t changed a bit. It’s always been a mix of a comic book shop, independent bookstore, coffee shop, and, on the first Monday of each month, a place to get your fortune read, though Sabrina’s never been interested; it’s not like Miss Wardwell can actually read fortunes, not like a witch could. 

Usually, she, Harvey, Susie, and Roz spend their Friday nights at Dr. Cerberus’s. It’s maybe nerdier than what other Greendale High kids do on a Friday night — definitely nerdy by the standards of witches at the Academy, from what Ambrose says — but she likes it. They talk about movies or do homework together, or get books and read passages aloud to each other to try and make a feasible story out of different novels. They do it every Friday. It’s like clockwork. It’s what’s normal.

“Come home directly after school today, Sabrina,” says Aunt Zelda, when Sabrina sits down at the kitchen table. “Your Aunt Hilda and I have something to speak with you about.”

Sabrina, halfway into her chair, freezes. She looks at Ambrose, where he’s perched with his bare feet on the table, reading a copy of  _ The Hunger  _ by Alma Katsu. His eyes aren’t moving on the page, which means he’s listening very hard, and also, probably, had expected it. “Um,” says Sabrina, and slowly sinks onto her seat. “Am I in trouble, or — ”

“Oh, no, sweetheart,” says Aunt Hilda, and sweeps by with her frying pan, dropping a kiss on the top of Sabrina’s head as she goes. “We just need to have a family meeting.”

“Since when do we have family meetings?” says Sabrina. 

“ _ Since when _ .” Zelda scoffs. “We’ve always had family meetings.  _ You  _ just haven’t been invited to one as of yet. You’re a child.”

“So why am I invited to this one?”

“Because in a little over a month you will be part of our coven, and a full witch, leaving behind your mortal girlhood, and thus can be expected to be mature enough to handle such matters.” Zelda shakes out her newspaper — it’s in Korean, today — and then adds, “I don’t see why you’re questioning the proceedings.” 

“Because I’ve literally never heard of you three having family meetings until now?” Sabrina leans back so Hilda can put a scoop of scrambled eggs on her plate. “Wait, does this have anything to do with why you three have been so weird lately?”

It’s not subtle. Ambrose looks at Aunt Hilda, and just as quickly back at his page. Aunt Hilda looks at Aunt Zelda, who ignores her in favor of folding up her paper. Aunt Zelda takes a sip of her espresso. 

“Why do you say that, dear?” says Aunt Hilda. 

“You’re kidding,” says Sabrina. She looks down at her eggs — they’re a bit runny, but not overly so — and then back up again. “Aunt Hilda, you’ve spent the whole of the past week in your greenhouse talking to your plants, which you  _ only  _ do when you’re stressed — ”

“That’s not true,” sputters Aunt Hilda, and turns away to plunge her hot frying pan in the sink. 

“ — Auntie Zee, you’ve been sleepwalking, I hear you all the time — ”

“Poppycock,” says Aunt Zelda, scathingly. She takes another sip of her espresso. “I have been ruminating. I am  _ not  _ a somnambulist.” 

“ — and this is the first time I’ve seen Ambrose in a week, because he’s either locked in his room or down in the basement cleaning up bodies and no matter how many times I offer to help he’s just been telling me to go away — ” 

Ambrose hunches his shoulders into his book.

“ — so  _ something  _ is going on,” says Sabrina, “and don’t think I haven’t noticed when it started, because I know that warlock last week said  _ something  _ to you, and you just won’t tell me what it is!”    


“I told you we should have mentioned it,” says Ambrose, only half under his breath. Aunt Zelda whaps her newspaper down onto the tabletop. 

“I’ll thank you for your silence, Ambrose.” 

“What even  _ happened _ ?” Sabrina folds her arms close around her stomach, a congealing sort of sensation swelling up her throat. “Did something happen to somebody? Is someone sick? Did someone in the coven die?”

“Oh, goodness, pet, no, nothing — nothing like that.” Aunt Hilda hurries over, and rests her hands to Sabrina’s shoulders, and the warm weight eases some of the panic building in her chest. “No, nobody’s died, what on earth gave you that idea?”

“More like somebody died too early and forgot to leave a proper note,” says Zelda.

“ _ Zelda _ ,” Aunt Hilda snaps, and rubs Sabrina’s shoulders again.

“Okay, I’m confused. Who died?”

“Nobody  _ died _ ,” says Aunt Hilda. She hesitates. “Well, not in your lifetime, anyway. You remember your family tree, Sabrina?” 

Sabrina blinks. Death and family secrets aside, she hadn’t thought the tapestry in the library would come into it at all. She can remember in elementary school when Aunt Zelda would quiz her on every part of that family tree, from the founder of the Spellman family (Aloicious Spellman, her great grandfather, 875 CE to 1329 CE, right down to her third cousin Zebediah in New Zealand, 1931 CE to present day.) “Of course.” She considers. “I don’t understand, did Cousin Zebediah get married or something?”

“No, nothing like that.” Hilda considers. “Well, a little like that. Do you remember the stories we told you about your cousin Mortimer?”

“Sort of.” Cousin Mortimer had been one of the younger cousins — not as old as Ambrose, at least — but he’d died before she was even born, so it isn’t like she has a frame of reference. There’s a photo of him in the study, probably taken in the 1960s: a very blonde man with perfect teeth, a wicked, crooked smile, and a black leather jacket. Not as handsome as Cousin Montgomery the film star, but she’s pretty sure no one in the family is as handsome as Cousin Montgomery the film star; Aunt Zelda always mutters about Cousin Montgomery’s  _ penchant  _ for glamours and attraction spells. None of his beauty is genuine. “He died in an accident.”

Ambrose scoffs, and says, “ _ Accidentally  _ fell on a witch hunter’s blade, more like.”

“ _ Ambrose _ ,” Aunt Hilda says in a hiss. 

“I thought you said witch hunters were rare.”

“They are, Sabrina, love,” says Aunt Hilda. She takes a chair, and pulls it close to Sabrina’s, sitting beside her as though she’s afraid Sabrina will start frothing at the mouth with panic and fall to the floor. “In Greendale, at least. They rarely come here, they know better. But across the river — ”

“I know,” says Sabrina. She sighs. “ _ So have no fear, young witchling, as the Sweetwater runs true / but should its magic ever fail, the Order comes for you. _ We’re the coven, and they’re the Order, everyone knows that. No one goes to Riverdale if they can help it.”

“Unless you’re young,” says Zelda, “and stupid, and taking risks you shouldn’t.”

Sabrina frowns. “I don’t understand.”

“Cousin Mortimer got a mortal woman pregnant,” says Zelda. “Only he didn’t think to tell us before he was murdered by hunters across the river — ” 

“ _ What _ ,” says Sabrina. 

“ — and now we’ve yet another adolescent witch to deal with, only  _ she  _ is even more embroiled in the mortal realm than  _ you _ , dear niece, and while  _ I _ _ — _ ” Aunt Zelda’s nostrils flare “ — saw no point in mentioning her to you until the issue of her mortal mother is — dealt with — your aunt Hilda  _ insisted  _ that you be made aware, for what reason  _ I _ have no idea.”

“She’s family, Zelda.” Aunt Hilda grips Sabrina’s hand ever more tightly. “Sabrina has a right to know just like the rest of us.”

“Wait,” says Sabrina. Her head has gone a bit fuzzy; there’s a strange echo in her ears that has nothing to do with the eggs.  _ A half witch. Cousin Mortimer and a mortal had a baby half-witch. _ “If — if Cousin Mortimer died before he told you about her, then how did you — ”

“The pagans in Riverdale had enough common decency to inform us there was a Spellman on their side of the river.” Aunt Zelda taps out a cigarette, and fixes it to her cigarette holder, lighting it with a flame that emerges from the tip of her thumb. “You may have seen one of them last week, Sabrina, that — extraordinarily dressed young warlock who left the house last week.”

“The one with the hat?”

“He has a  _ name _ , Zelda.”

“Not much of a one,” says Zelda. She blows smoke over the kitchen table. “Anyway, all of this is beside the point. We  _ intended  _ to tell you this after you returned from school, so there would be no distraction from your final weeks at Baxter High prior to your transfer to the Academy, but, as usual, I am overruled.”

“My vote was to kidnap her and bring her to Greendale,” says Ambrose, folding his arms over his chest to tuck his hands into his armpits. “Aunt Hilda thinks that’s a bad idea.”

“Well, of  _ course  _ I think it’s a bad idea, the poor thing would have been terrified — and besides, I rather think that she’s able to put up enough of a fight that even you, my lad, would have come away burned if you’d tried it.” Aunt Hilda frowns. “ _ Not  _ that I’m advocating that you violate your house arrest.”

Ambrose bares his teeth. “Never, Auntie.” 

“The notification from the pagan Circle was merely a courtesy.” Aunt Zelda taps cigarette ash out onto her eggs. “By witch law, we effectively have no power once we cross the river. If we  _ had  _ attempted to take her, the Circle would have chased us down, and rightfully so, though it irks me to admit it. The son of the Circle’s leader seems to have established himself as her guardian, so if you  _ had  _ taken her, Ambrose, you’d have more than your fair share to deal with.” 

Ambrose sighs, loudly. “I feel like neither of you have faith in me anymore, and I find myself very disappointed.”

“Hush, you felon,” says Aunt Zelda. 

“That poor girl, stuck over there with her mortal relatives,” says Hilda. She frets. “It--it must be very strange, growing up mortal with — everything.”

Sabrina blinks. “She grew up with mortals?”

“It seems that Mortimer’s sexual conquests were of the  _ married and Catholic  _ sort,” says Aunt Zelda. 

“Oh,” says Sabrina. 

“Anyway. Despite the — unpleasant reactions of her mortal relatives, the girl  _ is  _ family, and we are  _ not  _ relinquishing our claim to her simply because she was born on the wrong side of the river. She is a Spellman, she shall be baptized a Spellman, she shall be recognized as a Spellman, and she  _ will  _ learn Spellman magic, rather than be left behind to rot in that — heathen place. We owe that to her father, if nothing else.” 

“But,” says Sabrina. “If — if she’s over there, and we can’t get there, then what do we do?”

Zelda looks at Hilda, and waves a hand.

“Well,” says Aunt Hilda, hesitantly. “I — I rather thought we could invite them to dinner.” 


	27. Time Flies On Wicked Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks of silence ends with a crash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: alienation by parents, shitty parent/child dynamics, discussion of Hiram in witch jail, discussion of FP not having his shit together, some mentions of Archie being a survivor, and panic attacks/night terrors.
> 
> There's been a lot of updates the last few days!! Make sure you read the last chapter and the last interlude before reading this, if you haven't!

killerqueenkev: _mmmmmk i kno u don’t have ur phone right now but you have GOT to hear the tea about midge and moose that josie just spilled so i’m expecting u to CHECK TWEETER AT SOME POINT YOUNG LADY when you get the chance_

killerqueenkev: _how is thornhill??? is it terrifying??? has cheryl eaten you alive yet like she once ate her and jason’s unborn triplet??? new theory for why she is the way she is, have absolutely no proof but would NOT be surprised t b fuckin h_

killerqueenkev: _okay it is COMPLETELY unacceptable for v to be sending me selfies of you and her and the red queen in fuckin sILK PAJAMAS and me to not hear all the details from you IMMEDIATELY plz check your computer at SOME POINT TONIGHT I MUST KNOW_

killerqueenkev: _HOLY. FUCK. BETTY. C._

killerqueenkev: _WHAT THE FUCK BOMBSHELL DID YOU JUST DROP_

killerqueenkev: _OH MY GOD_

killerqueenkev: _HOW DID YOU LEARN ABOUT_

killerqueenkev: _I DEMAND DETAILS RIGHT THE FUCK NOW BITCH WHAT THE LITERAL EFF_

killerqueenkev: _the whole school is gonna go b a n a n a s_

killerqueenkev: _did archie tell you???? who told you?????_

ladypoirot: _Oh my god, there are so many question marks in these messages my brain hurts._

killerqueenkev: _BETTY COOPER_

killerqueenkev: _WHAT_

ladypoirot: _Archie didn’t tell me, we learned from someone else, and no, I can’t tell you who until your dad investigates all of it._

ladypoirot: _Re: Jason, I just had the theory with no real proof but the way she reacted made it super obvious._

ladypoirot: _Re: me not telling you, I couldn’t tell anyone until I was absolutely sure because I didn’t want to out Archie as being a survivor, and it’s not that I don’t trust you, I just know that your dad would be a mandatory reporter like any of the teachers at school._

killerqueenkev: _and also archie would have murked you if he knew you told me_

ladypoirot: _We were literally just at a funeral yesterday for Jason. Who was murdered._

killerqueenkev: _i stand by my use of murked._

killerqueenkev: _poor archie though_

killerqueenkev: _he’s had a real bad fucking year_

killerqueenkev: _his parents got divorced and then he got assaulted and it turns out she only picked him because he was a replacement for fuckin jason mordecai houdinifingers blossom_

killerqueenkev: _and the person who outed him was his best friend_

killerqueenkev: _which like, holy shit betty that was brutal_

killerqueenkev: _not like i have any place to talk about this as i’ve never done it but methinks that adonis needs some mcfuckin therapy_

killerqueenkev: _is he at home? are u at home?_

ladypoirot: _I’m at home. I don’t know if Archie’s at home. He has his blinds drawn and the house seems dark. Mr. Andrews’s truck is in the drive, though, so they must have come back at some point while I was asleep._

ladypoirot: _They probably had to go talk to your dad at the station yesterday._

killerqueenkev: _yeah probably_

killerqueenkev: _dad’s keeping his mouth shut with this one aside from asking me if i “was ever left alone” with grundy_

killerqueenkev: _which like lol i’m a theatre nerd not a music nerd_

killerqueenkev: _besides i came out to him as gay a w h i l e ago_

killerqueenkev: _he still sometimes forgets but it was sweet he asked_

killerqueenkev: _do you know anyone else who was_

killerqueenkev: _y’know_

ladypoirot: _I mean. I have more guesses. But I don’t have any proof. And I don’t want to spread the names around until I do, because it’s going to be bad enough just with Archie._

killerqueenkev: _yeah jesus_

killerqueenkev: _i say laughing hysterically out of nausea and anxiety_

killerqueenkev: _it’s already in the register_

killerqueenkev: _like kudos to your mom to getting THAT byline up so fast but holy shit it’s gonna be all over_

killerqueenkev: _we might hit national news_

ladypoirot: _Good._

killerqueenkev: _is that all you have to say??? like archie’s going to have a lot of shit to deal with_

killerqueenkev: _and_

killerqueenkev: _not to poke a sore spot or anything but like_

killerqueenkev: _i can’t imagine he’s too happy knowing you’re the one who asked and outed all of it_

killerqueenkev: _so_

ladypoirot: _Yeah_. 

ladypoirot: _I’m not happy that Archie’s been hurt, not at all. I never want him to get hurt._

ladypoirot: _But there was no other way to make sure she’d get exposed than make it public like that. We couldn’t think of anything else._

killerqueenkev: _we?_

killerqueenkev: _wait, duh, jughead_

killerqueenkev: _the blue and gold superhero duo_

killerqueenkev: _s p e a k i n g o f_

killerqueenkev: _what’s happening with your super secret investigation into what happened to jason_

killerqueenkev: _i assume this whole grundy thing came from that_

ladypoirot: _In a way!! But if you want to come to the B &G office on Monday to talk everything through with us that’d help. _

killerqueenkev: _your bess and george is ready for duty, betty drew!!_

killerqueenkev: _also hey by the way_

killerqueenkev: _i *definitely* did not hallucinate you kissing jughead’s cheek before everything went down right_

ladypoirot: _Asked and answered, counselor._

killerqueenkev: _are you binging law and order svu again_

ladypoirot: _Literally eat my whole ass, Kevin Keller._

killerqueenkev: _mmmmm spicy spicy denial_

killerqueenkev: _want me to come over with ice cream and the arrow box sets so you can catch me up on everything_

ladypoirot: _Yes, please._

.

.

.

 _You have been added to Groupchat_ **Vixxxen Queens**

 _Members of Chat:_ ♕V♕, ♦️Red♦️Queen♦️Cheryl♦️, Betty

♕V♕: _Hello hello hello!!_

♕V♕: _It is a Literal Scand_ _al™️ that the three of us do not have a groupchat._

♕V♕: _So I took it upon myself to rectify matters!_

♕V♕: _You can both thank me on Monday!_ 💃💃💃

♦️Red♦️Queen♦️Cheryl♦️: _While this indubitably would have been beneficial prior to this weekend I must inform you that the groupchat title is no longer applicable._

♦️Red♦️Queen♦️Cheryl♦️: _Mummy dearest has decided I no longer will be part of the River Vixens._

♕V♕: _!!!!!!! Why?? Is this because of what happened at the memorial?_

♦️Red♦️Queen♦️Cheryl♦️: _Among other executive decrees, extra-curricular privileges have been revoked, and that includes the River Vixens._

♦️Red♦️Queen♦️Cheryl♦️: _While it vexes me to admit it, however, this groupchat makes matters much simpler to manage._

♦️Red♦️Queen♦️Cheryl♦️: _I intended to speak with both of you on Monday morning as it is._

Betty: _What about?_

♦️Red♦️Queen♦️Cheryl♦️: _While my mother continues on her mission to make my life completely unlivable, I have chosen you two to fulfill my duties as HBIC of the River Vixens._

♦️Red♦️Queen♦️Cheryl♦️: _You can thank me later._

♦️Red♦️Queen♦️Cheryl♦️: _Though if either of you mess it up I will cut off your hands and feed them to the roses._

Betty: _I see you’re feeling better._

♦️Red♦️Queen♦️Cheryl♦️: _I resent the implication._

♦️Red♦️Queen♦️Cheryl♦️: _I have decided that Jason would be disappointed in me if I should continue wallowing in my bed like a malingering Victorian noblewoman._

♦️Red♦️Queen♦️Cheryl♦️: _I’m not Lady Dedlock and I have no intention of becoming so._

♕V♕: _No_ 👏🏽 _Dickensian_ 👏🏽 _wifflewaffle_ 👏🏽 _here_ 👏🏽

♕V♕: _And we would be honored to take the reins while your mother continues to be a fascist dictator, wouldn’t we, B?_

Betty: _Are you sure you want us to do it?_

Betty: _Wouldn’t Ginger and Tina be better options?_

♦️Red♦️Queen♦️Cheryl♦️: _Please, Betty Cooper._

♦️Red♦️Queen♦️Cheryl♦️: _Ginger and Tina, while they served their purpose, were never more than a means to an end, and that end was controlling the remainder of the Vixens and ensuring they followed my orders._

♦️Red♦️Queen♦️Cheryl♦️: _Besides, Ginger and Tina weren’t the ones who came to Thornhill to keep me company the night before my brother’s funeral._

♦️Red♦️Queen♦️Cheryl♦️: _Ginger and Tina didn’t do the séance with me._

♦️Red♦️Queen♦️Cheryl♦️: _And if I give Ginger and Tina a taste of power I’m not sure I will be able to wrest it back from them without having them expelled from Riverdale High._

Betty: _I don’t want to know if you can actually do that._

Betty: _We have the choreo to organize for the game against Baxter High, do you want us to get started on that? Or do you want us to talk to you about what you want done?_

♦️Red♦️Queen♦️Cheryl♦️: _Due to my understandable grief and isolation I have_

♦️Red♦️Queen♦️Cheryl♦️: _That is to say, I’m sure the pair of you will be able to handle one piece of choreography._

♕V♕: _Did you forget about the game next month, Cheryl?_

♦️Red♦️Queen♦️Cheryl♦️: _Absolutely not, I resent the implication. I simply had other priorities._

Betty: _V, be nice._

Betty: _I did some choreo work with my ballet teacher, I can come up with a mockup and show it to you if you like, Cheryl?_

Betty: _At school, so you don’t get in trouble._

♦️Red♦️Queen♦️Cheryl♦️: _At least one of you is taking this seriously._

♕V♕: _Excuse you, I take cheerleading very seriously._

♦️Red♦️Queen♦️Cheryl♦️: _To the point of faux-lesbian kisses, I see._

♕V♕: _You would have done the same thing._

♦️Red♦️Queen♦️Cheryl♦️: _That’s beside the point._

Betty: _I’ll have something ready by Wednesday, Cheryl._

♦️Red♦️Queen♦️Cheryl♦️: _Acceptable. You can show me at lunch that day._

Betty: _Are you eating lunch with us now?_

♦️Red♦️Queen♦️Cheryl♦️: _Is that an objection?_

Betty: _No, I just wanted to confirm._

♕V♕: _Stop teasing the poor new witch, Cher-Bear._

♦️Red♦️Queen♦️Cheryl♦️: _If that comes out your mouth at any point in the next ten years, I will hex you._

Betty: _Happy Sunday, guys._

.

.

.

ladypoirot: _Oh, and also, so you don’t freak out when it happens: Cheryl’s going to start eating lunch with us from now on I think._

killerqueenkev: _EXCUSE ME I AM CALLING YOU RIGHT THE FUCK NOW_

.

.

.

It’s been two weeks since Jason’s memorial, and no one has seen Archie. 

Betty closes the locker. The smell of the Pembrooke’s locker room—a hazy mix of different shampoos, deodorants, and industrial strength bleach—has been giving her a headache since she came in to practice the choreography with Veronica. Keeping a change of clothes in Veronica’s locker at the Pembrooke is probably the best choice she’s made in the last month, since she can’t exactly go back home to change before evening practice. She’s been out of the house since six AM, and as miserable as it’s been to get to Riverdale High before the sun has even fully risen, it’s better than being on Elm Street at the moment.

Hal is still living at the _Register_ . Betty hasn’t seen her father since he walked out to speak with Hilda and Zelda Spellman at Thornhill. She _has_ seen Alice, but it’s like living with a vengeful ghost. Her mother doesn’t speak to her. If Betty comes into a room, Alice leaves it. No matter what Betty says—questions, comments, anything—Alice doesn’t respond. Not even asking about Polly will get a response anymore. Her mother won’t even look her in the eye. The only time Alice has said a word to her since the night of the memorial is to let her know about a week into it that Betty is expected to be home by seven pm every night, which is the latest she’s been allowed out since the Twilight burned down. When Betty asked why, Alice simply waved her hand, and said, “I don’t appreciate being interrogated in my own house, Elizabeth,” and walked off again. 

She can't find anything out about Polly, either. The Saturday after the memorial, her mom is out at work, or talking to her dad, or _something—_ Betty isn't sure—and Betty takes the opportunity to go through every inch of the basement office. There's no trace of Polly. Nothing, anywhere. Her mom's computer is gone, too, so she can't check that, and there's no _way_ she'll be able to get into her mom's purse, not lately. Alice won't even look her in the face; she wouldn't trust Betty around her purse or her checkbook, not at the moment. The most Betty can do is hack into her mom's email account (Alice's fault; all her email and social media passwords are some riff off of _Cinderfuckinella,_ from the quote from _Pretty Woman_ ) but her mom's cleaned it all out; there's no hint of anything to do with Polly from any date later than July first, 2018, and _that_ had been a report from Polly's credit card about Polly buying three hundred dollars worth of clothes. Unless something changes, Betty thinks, or she thinks of something new, they're at a dead end. 

The image of the younger Polly, twelve year old Polly in a cottage by the sea, lurks at the edges of her memory. 

The tracker app remains on her phone. Betty forces herself to stop caring. She can’t tell when her parents check it, and she’s not sure it matters anymore anyway; it’s not like her mom says anything if she goes to Veronica’s after school. She hasn’t seen her dad at all, or heard from him. Betty sits on her phone at night wondering what to text him, what to say. _I didn’t know about this before this month?_ What does that matter? _You’re still my dad?_ It’s true, but that maybe won’t matter to him, if her dad hasn’t reached out. Maybe he doesn’t want her anymore. Maybe he doesn’t want to see her. Maybe he’s just not wanting to see her. Maybe he’ll never want to see her again.

Her nightmares aren’t helping matters. Some of them are about her parents. Some of them are about Jason. Some of them she doesn’t remember, but she wakes up with the sense that something is cutting into her chest, her hands, her throat; that someone is digging their nails into her gut to try and rip something out. She wakes up gasping sometimes, and then she can’t go back to sleep; all she can do is curl around Ell and hold onto him, breathe the Fox Forest scent of his fur, and struggle to regulate her breathing. 

Betty doesn’t sleep a whole lot. 

The interview with Sheriff Keller had been surprisingly painless. Betty had been called out of one of her afternoon classes to meet with the sheriff in Principal Weatherbee’s office, and Daniel Webster had already been there. He’d given her that same funny look he had in the sheriff’s station, but otherwise been brisk and grouchy, snapping at Sheriff Keller any time the sheriff went off-topic. In one particularly memorable moment, when the sheriff had asked if Jughead had helped her find out the truth about Grundy, Webster had scoffed, saying, “Please, Sheriff, anyone would think you were conducting a witch hunt.” 

Every hair on the back of Betty’s neck had stood up at the look on Keller’s face, but he’d changed the subject immediately after, and terminated the interview within ten minutes. Webster, she thinks, seems a bit—too reckless in how he tosses around legal clout, but he’s also helping, so Betty can’t exactly complain about free counsel.

The one good thing about the last few weeks is that she’s caught up with her school responsibilities. The _Blue & Gold _has released special statements regarding the Grundy issue, penned by Jughead and edited to within an inch of their lives by Betty; she’s caught up with her student council duties and started issuing emails about Homecoming and Reunion weekend; and tutoring Reggie, which, as per usual, almost never happens because Reggie tends not to turn up at his own tutoring sessions. 

Taking on the River Vixens on top of everything else she does sounded impossible at the outset, but Veronica has, surprisingly, stepped up. They’ve spent _hours_ in the gym at the Pembrooke, which has a full-mirror wall that lets them double-check each other and make sure they’re in sync. Cheryl’s joined them for half the sessions, in case her mother decides to free her from purgatory (Cheryl’s words, not Betty’s) so she’s not behind on the choreography. Cheryl had already picked the songs she wanted for the halftime show, so that’s a good part of the work done from Betty’s standpoint. She’s still not sure how Cheryl got Principal Weatherbee to approve either [ _Hey Mama_ ](https://open.spotify.com/track/5b2bu6yyATC1zMXDGScJ2d?si=DPgbTLy0Q0OJqRtI9_LDKA) or _[Worth It](https://open.spotify.com/track/41Fflg7qHiVOD6dEPvsCzO?si=87cSiqa3TxueX5jBTdHkCA), _ but the other options, according to Cheryl, had all been much racier, so she supposes Principal Weatherbee had just picked the least likely to make the school board self-immolate on the football field. 

They also need to do a piece for the pep rally prior to the game, which Cheryl hasn’t worked on at all since it’s “just a pep rally;” she’s asked Betty to come up with a song and choreo piece for it, and the level of creative influence Cheryl is letting her have over the situation is actually kind of scaring Betty a little bit. She hadn’t been aware, first of all, that Cheryl did so much _work_ for the River Vixens, and second of all, that Cheryl now apparently is just giving Betty and Veronica the reins, when Cheryl is such a massive control freak over things that matter to her that nobody’s ever seen her practice her cheers. It’s unnerving Betty a little bit. 

“Just embrace it,” says Veronica, when Betty mentions it. Veronica slides down into the splits in the middle of the Pembrooke gym floor, just to prove to herself that she can do it—she’s been having bad period cramps the last few days, and practicing anything that impacts her pelvic floor has been a bit of a nightmare—before flopping back against the floor and shutting her eyes. “It’s unlikely she’ll ever let you do it again, so run with it while you can.” 

Betty hums, and puts her foot on the bar to stretch out her thigh muscles. “I’m still just surprised she didn’t strangle me to death the moment I brought up the idea of letting the other girls audition for lead dancer.” 

Veronica snorts. “Well, when she gets back I’m sure that’ll be done away with. No one outshines the Queen Bee.” 

“Nancy is a good dancer, though.” Betty frowns. “So is Midge.” 

“Yeah, but it’s _Cheryl._ She has to be the center of attention. It’s like, pathological with her.” Veronica, on the floor, says, “Any news from the Spellmans?”

“Nothing.” Betty grabs the toe of her shoe, her ankle braced against the bar, and bends to put her nose to her kneecap. “Jughead said he was going to reach out if they haven’t said anything by next week.”

“And your parents?”

“Status quo. God forbid we talk about anything in the Cooper family.” Betty peeks out of the corner of her eye. “What about you?”

“What about me?” says Veronica. She opens her eyes to stare at the ceiling. “Status quo. Mami won’t tell me anything about what’s going on with Daddy, and Daddy’s still stuck under the Vatican. We won’t be hearing from him for at least a century the way things are going, and there’s nothing I can do to change it.”

“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck.” Betty switches legs, and bends down to touch her nose to her kneecap again. “I can’t imagine having a father in prison. Or the witch equivalent.”

Veronica sighs. “Daddy—Daddy sold out and risked our whole church to sell magic to mortals. He put the whole Church of Shadows at risk. Not—not just our coven, but _all_ the covens. It’s why the Anti-Pope got involved. But I just—”

Something catches in her throat. Veronica lays there, just for a moment longer, before rolling back up to her feet, bending, and going into a handstand. Her shirt falls away from her stomach, and Betty looks to the mirror instead. 

“Anyway,” says Veronica, sounding more strained now. She balances on one hand, and then on the other, back and forth until Betty can see her elbows trembling. “It doesn’t matter. It’s done.”

“Yeah, but—that doesn’t mean you don’t love him,” says Betty. “Or miss him.”

“It is how it is.” Veronica puts her feet back on the floor, and stands up tall, lifting her hair off the back of her neck as she catches her breath. “And I actually don’t like talking about it.” 

“Yeah, of course.” Betty bites her lip. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine.” Veronica blows strands of hair out of her eyes. “I want to go through the pep rally choreo one more time if you have the energy.”

“Sounds good.” Betty hesitates. “Veronica, I—you’ve done a lot for me, the last few weeks. You—you and your mom let me live with you, and you helped with Grundy, and you’ve been—you’ve been here. And I want to be here for you, too. Okay?” 

Veronica looks at her, and does not speak. Betty wonders if she imagines the slight quiver of her lower lip.

“You can talk to me,” Betty says. “We’re triad sisters.” She’s been trying to make her way through the book on triads that Hermione loaned her, but it’s slow-going; there are too many magical philosophies she has to get through first. Still, it means something to Veronica, and if Betty’s honest with herself, it means something to her, too. The idea. _Triad sisters._ Witches who are meant to be sisters, in magic. “I—I want to help you, too.”

A beat passes. Veronica reaches out, then, and Betty meets her hand in the middle, squeezing her fingers. Veronica’s nails are painted jewel green, and nip into her skin just a little, sharper than they look. 

“Yeah.” Veronica squeezes her hand tighter, and breathes. “I know—I know Mami told you what happened, but it’s still—I don’t like talking about it. It—it’ll take a while. Okay?”

Betty nods. She squeezes back. 

“Okay.” Veronica heaves a sigh. “Okay. We should go through the pep rally choreo one more time, make sure we got it down so we can teach the girls. And then Mami said you can come up for dinner, we were going to order from Dr. Cerberus’s. He’s added this beef noodle soup to the menu that is—” She actually does the chef’s kiss motion from Taylor Swift memes with her free hand. “Mm. Perfect.” 

“Sounds good.”

Veronica squeezes her fingers one more time before she lets go. 

Alice is locked in the basement study by the time Betty makes it home that night, and Betty doesn’t try to disturb her. She leaves her keys on the kitchen counter, and ducks into her room, instead, scruffing Ell’s ears with one hand as she dumps her backpack on the carpet, kicks her bedroom door shut, and falls sideways onto her mattress. Jughead, perched on her windowseat, doesn’t look up from his computer. 

“Hey,” he says, after a moment, and Betty waits for Ell to jump up on the bed and lick her face before turning. 

“Hey. I figured you wouldn’t be here until eleven.”

“The Bulldogs turned up at Pop’s for some post-practice homoerotic bonding ritual. It was too loud to work on anything.” He half-closes his laptop, and draws one knee up closer to his chest. His hat’s off, for once, and left on the floor; Razz has curled up inside it. She seems to be asleep. “I closed your blinds. I hope that’s okay.”

“Yeah, that’s fine, I’ve been keeping them closed anyway. The last thing I need is for people to see a hyena in my room.” Betty catches Ell’s snout, and kisses his cheekbone hard. “Hello, my boy.”

Ell wiggles a bit, and then says, **_Alice tried to come in and snoop today. She looked through your notebooks. She didn’t find anything._ **

“Where were you?”

**_Spying through the closet keyhole. Lots of shadows in the closet make it easy to hide._ **

Betty sighs. “I stopped keeping a diary when I was twelve just so she wouldn’t do that. I should start locking my door when I leave my room.” 

“Considering the circumstances it might be a strategic investment,” says Jughead. He opens up his laptop again. “Just in case.”

“Yeah, cause my mom will totally not notice me putting a padlock on my door when I leave in the mornings.” She folds Ell’s ears down, and lets them bounce back up again. “Was Archie with them? The football players.”

“No.” Jughead opens his computer back up again, and stares at the screen. “And yes, before you ask, his blinds are still closed. I looked when I got here.” 

“I figured.” Archie’s blinds have been shut since he got back from the memorial. Unless something drastic happens, she doesn’t see that changing anytime soon. 

“So I got a note today,” says Jughead, not looking up from his computer. He’s not typing anymore, though. Betty turns her cheek to look at him.

“From who?”

“Zelda Spellman,” says Jughead, and before Betty can catch her breath, Ell clambers over her, and sprawls his entire hundred-pound body over her ribcage. Betty coughs. 

“You okay?” Jughead says. His voice creaks, like he’s trying not to laugh. 

“You’re heavy,” she tells Ell. “Why are you so _heavy_ when you only eat for fun?” 

Ell, happily, lets his tongue loll out his mouth. **_Magic and sass._ **

“That tracks.” Betty tips her head to look at Jughead. “What did, um, Zelda want?”

“It was a dinner invitation,” he says. “For you. For this Friday. Over in Greendale.”

Her tongue dries up. Betty turns, and starts ruffling Ell’s fur. “I don’t know if my mom will let me go to Greendale.”

“You can probably make something up,” says Jughead. “It’s not like she’s talking to you anyway. Unless you don’t want to go.” 

Betty doesn’t say anything for a long time. She’s not exactly sure she _does_ want to go. Or, rather, she wants to go—she wants to know these women, people who might be her family, who probably _are_ her family—but the concept of actually getting up and going to Greendale and sitting down at a dinner table with a bunch of strangers who will call her _cousin_ is carving slices out of her stomach lining. “I—I want to go, I just—” 

She trails off. 

“I can send her a message and say it’s too early,” Jughead says. “If you want me to.”

“Why’d she send it to you, anyway?” Betty frowns. “Does she know you’re staying with me?”

“Highly doubtful.” Jughead rolls his eyes. “She just knows I’m keeping an eye on you, so if she sends a note to me, it’ll get to you eventually.”

That makes sense. She leans her head back against the pillows. Ell, still on her chest, says, **_You don’t have to be scared. I’ll be there with you._ **

“I’m not scared, Ell.” Still, she kisses his nose again. “Just—I don’t know. Nervous. I’ll go.” Betty peeks at Jughead. “Do you wanna come with me?”

Jughead wets his lips. “You want me to go with you?”

“If you want,” Betty says. “I’m—it’s still—weird. For me. If you don’t want to go—” 

“No, it’s—fine. I’ll come if you want me there.” He looks back at his computer. She might be hallucinating it, but it looks like his ears have gone red. “Guarantee you Zelda won’t like it, though.”

“Yeah, well, Zelda can deal.” She brushes hair out of her eyes. “I’m gonna shower, but—are you staying here tonight? I ate at Veronica’s but I can get something from downstairs if you want.”

“I’m not going to say no to food, but—seriously, it’s enough that you let me stay here some nights, you don’t have to feed me every day, too—”

“We’ve been over this,” Betty says, and pushes Ell off her chest. She’s sweaty, and as much as Ell seems to like laying on her when she’s sweaty—she thinks it has something to do with magic and scents and claiming, because she’s been doing reading on hyenas and scent is _big_ within their clans—but she gets overheated, and also he’s heavy, and also she can’t exactly shower with a massive, still-growing hyena pinning her to the bed. “You’re not sleeping in that rotting treehouse. And it’s not like I can get into worse trouble with my parents right now after everything that’s happened.”

Jughead wavers. “Still.”

“I don’t mind you being here, Juggie,” says Betty. She sits up, and crosses her ankles. “It’d worry me way more if I didn’t know where you were. And if—if you can’t go back to your dad’s, then you can stay here as long as you need. Regardless of how my mom might feel about it.” 

Jughead coughs, and doesn’t look at her. He never likes talking about this, even though it’s come up every three days since the memorial. He keeps hemming and hawing and not being _sure_ , because Jughead, despite being awkward and solitary, also has his pride. Every few days they go through this ritual of him saying it’s too much, and her saying it’s not enough, and she’s fairly sure the only reason he keeps giving in to her arguments is because he’s still worried she’s on the verge of a mental breakdown after Jason’s memorial. 

Betty won’t lie, though. It’s nice, having him here. Not because it’s like a fortnight-long sleepover—though it kind of, technically is, since he’s sleeping on her floor every night now—but because it’s starting to feel normal. She’d meant what she’d said, that he’s the most important person in her life now, her best friend. He’s also the one she trusts the most, she thinks. Or at least the one she trusts not to stab her in the back. Veronica’s only been in town a month, and Cheryl bullied her for years before the sudden flip, and Archie—well, Archie is a whole different kettle of fish. Knowing that Jughead is in her room, and hearing him talking to Razz while she’s half-asleep, or typing in the middle of the night when she snaps out of a nightmare, or the sound of his soft snoring at three in the morning, is weirdly reassuring. She feels safer, especially after nightmares she can’t remember. 

_Which won’t change the fact that Mom will skin you alive if she catches you with a boy in your room, let alone FP Jones’s son,_ the voice in her head says. 

Betty dropkicks that thought as far away as she possibly can. 

“Have you talked to him?” Betty says. “Your dad.” 

Jughead lets out a deep breath, and then picks up one of the throw pillows from the windowseat to chuck it at her. “Stubbornness, thy name is Betty Cooper.” 

Betty catches the pillow, and chucks it back. “I was just checking.” 

Jughead tips his head, sucks his teeth. “ _Kind_ of hard to talk to a parent who won’t talk back. Besides, he knows my position on things, and I know his. I _really_ doubt that’s going to change just because I haven’t spoken to him in a few weeks.”

Betty bites the inside of her cheek. “I mean—I don’t—he’s not—” 

“Betty,” says Jughead, and puts his computer aside, standing up from the windowseat to creep just a little bit closer. He puts his hand on her shoulder, thumb braced against the side of her neck. “Hey. Deep breath.”

She shuts her eyes, and takes a deep breath. 

“You’re doing it again,” he says. “That fixing other people’s dads thing.”

“I know.”

“Your parents,” he says, “are fucking crazy. But that doesn’t say anything about you.”

Betty lets out a breathy laugh, eyes still closed. “Yeah, I know.” 

“Your dad will come around,” he says, but he sounds—hesitant. Like he’s not sure if he believes it. Betty’s not sure she believes it either. “It’s okay.” 

“Yeah.” Betty looks up at him, and then squeezes his hand, just for a moment. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” 

“I still think I should meet him,” says Betty. “Your dad.” 

Jughead’s hand falls away from her immediately. He turns back to the windowseat. “I don’t know if that’s the best idea.”

“So he’ll try to recruit me to the Circle,” says Betty. “Fine. I need to know more about the Circle anyway. And I can’t—decide where to go if I don’t know anything about either side. And yeah, I know _you_ , and I’ve met Toni and—and Thomas and Lavender and Sweet Pea and Fangs, but that’s not the same as like— _seeing_ the Circle.”

“I don’t know if—”

“I have to,” says Betty. “At some point. Right?” 

Jughead blows air out his nose, rubs a hand over his face. He’s not looking at her anymore. Betty grips the hem of her sweaty t-shirt, and starts twisting it between her fingers. It’s harder, she thinks, to nip her nails into her palms with someone else living in her room. It’s the one drawback to Jughead staying with her all the time. 

“At some point,” Jughead says. “Not now. Not yet. The Circle is—nothing against you, Betty, because you’re a strong witch, but I don’t—know that you’re prepared to meet the Circle yet. It’s—it’s different.”

“I’ve met the Spellmans. Sort of.”

“But you’re not ready to meet the whole Church of Night,” Jughead counters. “You told Cheryl that last week when she tried to get you to go to midnight mass. There’s a difference between one Church of Night witch and the whole Church of Night. Right?”

Betty bites her cheek again. “Well—”

“Just—please.” He steals a look at her. “Not yet. Please. Wait until you’ve learned more. Okay?”

Betty folds her arms over her chest. “...okay.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” She reaches up, and tugs at her ponytail. “Yeah, okay. I—yeah. I get it.” 

Tension leaks out of his shoulders. Jughead sighs. “Thank you.”

“I’m going to shower,” says Betty. “And then I might make brownies or something. Okay?”

Jughead opens his mouth to say something, but in that moment, there’s a flutter of motion at the window. Ell lifts his head from the bed, and jumps down, lips curling back ever so slowly from his teeth. **_Betty. Away from the window._ **

“What—”

 **_Away,_ ** Ell says, and there’s a snarling sound coming from his throat that Betty doesn’t dare argue with. She backs away from the window, and lets Ell take the lead, watches as the hair on his ruff rises and the edges of his lips curl back from his long, wicked teeth. Razz is awake now, too; she zooms to Jughead, and stands on top of his bare left foot, all her spikes bristling at full capacity as she goes. Ell goes on his hind legs, putting his front paws on the windowseat, and then presses his nose to the glass. 

There’s a raven on the windowsill. Betty’s not entirely sure where it came from. It’s not like ravens and crows are rare in Riverdale; they’re in the middle of a forest, and there are animals all over, deer and foxes and bears, but this raven is—pretty huge. Probably one of the biggest ravens Betty’s ever seen. Ell touches the window with his nose, and the window raises, slowly, on its own. The raven doesn’t hop in. It sits on her sill, and croaks, flapping its wings to bare a strange white streak on the underside of its right wing. Ell’s hackles rise even higher. 

_It’s someone’s familiar._ It must be. If it were a normal raven, Ell wouldn’t be acting like this. Neither would Razz. It has to be a familiar, and it’s not someone she knows, or at least, not a familiar she’s seen. After a moment, the raven caws aloud, and ruffles its wings again.

“What?” says Betty. 

**_He said he’s Lavender Stirwell’s familiar_ ** , says Ell, and sneezes. His teeth are still bared, but not quite as much. **_He said to tell you Joaquin is back, and she’s offering her property as a place for you to study with him. He said she wants your answer by the end of the week._ **

“Oh,” says Betty. She looks at Jughead—Jughead, whose eyes are widening as he listens to Razz, probably getting the exact translation as Ell just gave her—and then looks back to the raven. It has another white splotch just beneath its beak, she realizes. His beak. Betty wets her lips. 

“Tell her I’ll come on Saturday afternoon,” says Betty. Then, awkwardly: “Thank you for coming all the way out here.” The raven shuffles back and forth on both feet. Then, with one final _caw_ , he takes off, and vanishes into the coming dark.


	28. Wicked Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Variety Show must go on. Valerie has a cunning plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: we get to go to the witch house now!!!  
> Betty, Jughead, Archie, Valerie, Trev, and Melody: not without a stop at TEEN ANGST LANE
> 
> CW: uhhhh angst, jealousy, losing friendships, some allusion to Grundy but nothing solid, Jughead makes a cannibalism joke

“So let me understand this correctly,” says Cheryl. “You won’t go to midnight mass at the Church of Night, but you  _ will  _ go to some absurd dinner party with a family that’s on the verge of being excommunicated?” 

Betty can’t help it. She rolls her eyes a little bit. “Cheryl, why would I want to go to midnight mass when you’ve already told me that half the people in the Church of Night would want to string me up and skin me alive?”

“I said that I wouldn’t  _ let  _ them do that, Betty, dearest, so clearly you weren’t  _ listening _ .” Cheryl rolls her eyes right back, and recrosses her ankles underneath the bench. They’re out on the quad, taking advantage of one of the last few days of bright sunlight before they hit October; Jughead, for his part, has been valiantly quiet the last few days that Cheryl’s had lunch with them, though she can feel Razz bristling in his pocket or against her thigh whenever Cheryl or Veronica say something particularly Satanist. He’s  _ trying _ , though, and she appreciates it. “If I remember correctly, and I  _ do _ , because my memory is flawless, I told you that  _ despite the fact  _ that many of the witches at the Church of Night may  _ harbor a desire  _ to skin you alive, I would not  _ let  _ them, so obviously you would be in no danger attending.” 

“Obviously,” says Veronica, but her eyes are dancing with hidden laughter. “You’d be a fool to turn  _ that  _ invitation down, B.”

“ _ Precisely  _ what I said,” says Cheryl, and stabs her spoon into her yogurt cup.

“As appetizing as that sounds I’m going to hold off on going to midnight mass until being skinned alive is no longer on the table.” Betty eats a french fry. “Thanks for the offer though, Cheryl. Besides, the Spellmans are — technically family. I told you that last week. If—if my mom had an affair with Mortimer Spellman, which it’s pretty much guaranteed she  _ did _ , then they’re my cousins and I have a right to get to know them before I turn up at their church. So, yeah, I’m going to the dinner. I already sent a message back to let them know I was coming.”

“Still.” Cheryl points at her with the spoon. There’s a smidgen of strawberry left behind on the metal, because of course the only kind of yogurt Cheryl Blossom eats is strawberry. “They  _ are  _ on the verge of being excommunicated, purely based on the fact that their niece is  _ also  _ half-mortal. It’s not the wisest choice on earth to associate yourself with them, particularly when you’ve already been tarred with the Circle’s brush.”

“Cheryl.” Betty fights the urge to rub her hands over her face as next to her, Jughead goes iron-tense. “We’ve talked about this.”

“Hm?” Cheryl blinks, and then seems to finally notice Jughead on Betty’s side of the table. “Ah. I would apologize, but I’m right. Associating with both Circle witches  _ and  _ the Spellmans will do nothing to raise your social standing in the Church of Night  _ or  _ at the Academy.”

Jughead scowls. “No born-and-raised Circle witch has ever  _ attended  _ the Academy, for good reason.” 

“Because the Academy won’t let you  _ in _ .”

“ _ Cheryl, _ ” says Betty again, but the bickering is off and running, and honestly she doesn’t have the patience to deal with it. Her phone is buzzing in her back pocket. 

“Hey, what happened to  _ it’s witches against the world, _ Cheryl, hm?” says Veronica, as Betty digs her cell phone out of her pocket and thumbs it open. 

🐾 Valerie 🐾:  _ Hi Betty _

🐾 Valerie 🐾:  _ Do you have a second today so we can talk?  _

🐾 Valerie 🐾:  _ It’s not an emergency.  _

Betty:  _ Yeah sure! Is there something wrong?  _

🐾 Valerie 🐾:  _ Sort of?  _

🐾 Valerie 🐾:  _ It’s about Archie.  _

🐾 Valerie 🐾:  _ And I know you guys haven’t really been close the last few weeks after everything that happened but you know him really well and always have so I just wanted to ask a favor. _

🐾 Valerie 🐾:  _ If you’re comfortable with it. _

Betty stares at her phone, just for a moment. Next to her, Jughead bumps his shoulder to hers. “What?”

“One second,” says Betty, and types:  _ Yeah, sure! Do you have time this afternoon before variety show auditions? _ before passing Jughead her phone, so he can see the texts. “Just, um. This.”

“ _ This _ ,” says Veronica, and twirls her fork in her fancy spaghetti. “Sounds juicy, B.” 

“It’s just Valerie,” says Betty. She watches Jughead out of the corner of her eye, as he sweeps his thumb over the screen of her phone, scrolling up to the first message. His eyebrows have snapped together as he reads. “She wants to talk to me about the variety show, I think.”

“Isn’t that Kevin’s deal?” Veronica pops a baby carrot into her mouth. “What’s she texting you for?”

“Maybe she wants the Vixens to do something, I don’t know.” She’s not sure why she’s lying, at first. The idea of mentioning Archie to Veronica, to Cheryl, is—it stings. She doesn’t want to say what Valerie wants to talk about until it’s done. She won’t be able to deal with Veronica looking sympathetic, and Cheryl—who knows what Cheryl would react like. Betty has the sense that Cheryl forgets Archie even exists about 85% of the time, and the other 15% she’s not sure what to make of Betty and Jughead caring so much about a  _ mortal _ . “It’d be kinda cool to have the Pussycats at the pep rally, maybe.”

Cheryl, on Veronica’s side of the table, scoffs. She doesn’t say anything, she just scoffs, and jams her spoon into her low-fat yogurt so hard that Betty’s surprised it doesn’t cut through the bottom of the yogurt cup. “If you want  _ that _ , simply speak to Josie on my behalf.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Cheryl,” says Betty. 

“Well, if she needs something from the Vixens, let me know,” says Veronica. “Maybe we could get the Pussycats to perform at the game with us, against Baxter. Cheryl, you think they’d be down for that?” 

Betty hopes that’ll be the end of it. She thinks it will be. Veronica’s bored, more than anything, she thinks — after two weeks of simple school things, Veronica’s looking for something salacious, or gossipy, or  _ something  _ to hold her interest. Mortal school isn’t enough to hold her attention. Nor is it enough for Cheryl, Betty thinks, but Cheryl at least has more focus, if only to spite her mother; Veronica is bored out of her mind and open about it. Betty’s surprised she even comes to school, most days. “I don’t know. I’ll ask.”

“Hey.” Jughead nudges her again, and hands her her phone back. “New text.” 

Veronica says something. Betty tunes out. On the screen, it reads, 🐾 Valerie 🐾:  _ Are you okay with Melody and Trev being there too? Josie won’t be, she has something to do with her mom today, but we were hoping to get some practice done once we talk with y’all.  _

The Pussycats practice with Trev? That’s new. Still, Betty taps out,  _ Yeah, that’s fine! Do you mind if Jughead is there?  _

🐾 Valerie 🐾:  _ That’s fine! I figured he would be anyway. Meet in the B&G office?  _

_ Sounds good, see you at 2:50, then,  _ Betty says _.  _ Valerie’s response — ✌🏿😸✌🏿 — makes her smile, even if it’s a little awkward. She’s never been close with Valerie. Betty’s a dance person, a journalism fanatic, a reader, a people-pleaser and an introvert; Valerie is a singer, a musician, a composer, more solitary, more  _ I don’t give a fuck what you think of me, I know who I am and what I want and how I should be treated, and I will show you that _ . Betty’s not sure if she’s intimidated by Val, or in awe of her, and either way it means Betty never has any idea what to say to her. 

Her phone buzzes again. 

🍔Jughead🍔:  _ you okay? _

Betty looks up from her screen. Jughead’s not looking at her, not obviously, but she can see his lashes flickering against his cheek, like he’s peeking at her in his peripheral vision. She nudges his foot under the table, a silent  _ yes, I’m okay,  _ and puts her phone away. 

“Hey, it’s my favorite ladies,” says a voice, and then Kevin slides onto the bench on Betty’s other side. “Plus Jughead, who counts at this point.”

Jughead says, “So long as nobody expects me to get a nose job.” 

“You never know, Hobo, it might improve your face.” Cheryl tips her head, half-smiling. “That and getting rid of the hat, though I’m fairly certain that it’s sewn to your head.” 

“Not all of us need to feel like we’re the center of attention to be comfortable, Cheryl,” says Jughead, and bares his teeth. “You should try it sometime.”

Cheryl, instead of getting offended, bares her teeth right back at him. “I’d rather lick syphilis.” 

“Okay, gross,” says Veronica. “How are the preparations going, Kevin? Did you pick up the last sign-up sheets?”

“Yeah, and you’re not going to  _ believe  _ who I found on it,” says Kevin. For some reason, he darts a look at Betty, at Jughead, before leaning forward and saying, “Archie signed up for an audition slot tomorrow.”

Betty can’t help it. Under the table, she grips Jughead’s knee hard with one hand. He doesn’t flinch. 

“Archie’s here?” says Veronica, in an entirely different tone. She bites the inside of her cheek, and darts a look at Betty. “Um—did you see him sign up, or—”

“No, I didn’t, which is why I think it might be some kind of sick joke—I mean, he hasn’t been in school this whole time, how could he have signed up?” Kevin pulls his bag into his lap, and digs through it. “But, I mean, I have to keep the slot open cause there’s a student’s name on it, so I guess it’ll just be a break for me to get some water, I just don’t know why anyone would think that was  _ funny _ —”

“Can I see that?” says Jughead, and Kevin hands over the sign-up sheet without an argument, still talking. 

“—money’s on Reggie, honestly, which is fucking gross of him considering everything, but Reggie’s been even  _ more  _ of a dick since Archie’s been out of school, I think getting football captain went to his head or whatever—” 

Jughead spreads the piece of paper out on the bench, between their lunch trays. It’s Archie’s handwriting. Betty knows Archie’s writing like she knows Jughead’s chickenscratch, like she knows her mom’s looping scrawl. Archie always draws his Ds in one motion, a sharp line down and a circle at the bottom. She looks at it, for a moment, and then clears her throat.

“I’m, um, gonna go—get ready for biology.”

“Oh,” says Kevin, and looks up at her, stricken. “Betty, I didn’t—”

“No, it’s okay! You didn’t do anything.” She stands, and then loops her arm around Kevin’s shoulders, letting him put an arm around her waist, reassuring him. “I’m not upset. Don’t worry. I just need to review the biology chapter before class starts, and I can’t do that if I’m here with you guys, that’s all.” 

“So—” Kevin wets his lips. “So, Archie, um—”

“It’s cool,” says Betty. “I’ll see you later, Kev.” 

She’s already halfway across the quad by the time Jughead catches up with her, loping down to a walk when he comes into range. He left his tray behind, though Betty thinks that might, partially, be a revenge against Cheryl and Veronica more than anything. He also has her bag.

“You forgot this,” says Jughead, and Betty dumps her trash into the garbage can outside of the cafeteria.

“Thanks.”

She drops her tray off on top of the garbage can.

“He hasn’t been in touch with you, has he?” Betty says, without looking at him. Jughead hands her her bag, and she hooks her arm through the strap.

“No. I’m assuming not with you, either.”

“No.” Betty fixes her ponytail. “Do you think it has anything to do with Valerie? I remember they were hanging out before—before.”

“What, the audition?” Jughead frowns. “Maybe. Does it matter?”

“No,” says Betty, because it doesn’t. “I just—he must have been in school, if he signed up. But I didn’t see him. Did you?”

“No.” Jughead hesitates, and then touches her elbow, just for a moment. “Maybe he was here for a meeting while we were in class. With Weatherbee, or something.”

“Yeah. That fits.” Betty shuts her eyes. Then: “Sorry, I’m—I don’t regret it. I  _ don’t _ . I know it looks like—”

“No, I know you don’t.” Jughead shakes his head. Quietly, he says, “He’s my best friend too, Betts. I know what you’re saying.”

Tension unwinds in her chest. Betty makes herself smile—he can see it’s fake, she can tell with the way his eyebrows snap together, but he doesn’t call her on it—before she takes his hand and squeezes it for a moment. “I’m gonna—I’m going to go wash my face. I’ll see you in class, okay?”

“Okay,” says Jughead, after a moment. 

Betty makes it to the bathroom and into the disabled stall before the first tear spills over. 

_ We’re not friends anymore. _

She kind of knew it would happen. That Archie would hate her, particularly her, and blame her for what happened with Grundy, and, to be fair, the dissolution with Grundy  _ is  _ on her. Her and Jughead, the two of them orchestrated it, and she  _ doesn’t  _ regret it. She knew Archie hating her was a risk, knew it was  _ likely _ , and her life has changed, anyway; even if she and Jughead hadn’t exposed Grundy, her relationship with Archie had transformed entirely the moment he’d turned her down. They’re barely friends, now. And maybe, if that’s all that had happened between them, Grundy and the semi-formal, she could fix it, but there’s more, now. There are things she can’t tell him. She used to tell Archie  _ everything _ , and now she can barely tell him anything at all, and you can’t be friends—she swallows—you can’t be friends with someone if you can’t be  _ honest  _ with them. She can’t be friends with him. 

_ You knew this would happen. _ It’s the voice in her head that’s like Alice.  _ You knew he’d hate you for this _ .  _ Deal with it. _

She knew. Or she should have known. For all she doesn’t regret that she exposed Grundy, she’s in a different space than she was at the semi-formal. She’s—she’s a  _ witch _ . She has family she never knew about. There are things about her that she can never tell Archie, because he wouldn’t believe her. She couldn’t tell him before—about the pressure inside, about her abilities, but it’s different now. She  _ knows  _ what she is, she knows what  _ Jughead  _ is, all these secrets about Riverdale and Greendale and the Serpents and the town, and Archie will never believe her about any of it. Their friendship, as it was, is gone, and she can’t get it back, and that feels like something’s been peeled off the inside of her ribs and tossed into the dirt. 

She knows—she  _ knows  _ Archie is part of the fabric of her life, and she’d always been convinced that he’d be part of it forever, but—this, at least, is real evidence. They’re not. They won’t. This can’t be fixed. 

Betty takes one deep breath. Then another. Then, carefully, she opens the door to the bathroom stall and wets down a paper towel to wipe her face.

.

.

.

Jughead:  _ hey arch _

Jughead:  _ you don’t have to respond to this  _

Jughead:  _ but good luck at the audition, man _

Jughead:  _ you’ll kick ass  _

Jughead:  _ and i hope you’re doing okay _

Jughead:  _ we’re here when you need _

Jughead:  _ and by we i mean all of us, though i hate lumping myself in with reggie _

Jughead:  _ hope you know that _

.

.

.

The  _ Blue & Gold  _ office has changed significantly since the first few days they’d reopened. 

There are stacks of new papers on the printing table, now. It’s still just her and Jughead running it, which, honestly, is a lot on a normal day, but they’d spent a few days after school cleaning it up and reorganizing, and it feels lighter in here now. She’s still not entirely sure where the couch came from—it’s certainly not in the old yearbook photos of the office—but Betty brought in one of her knitted blankets (blue and gold, since it seemed appropriate) to put on the tattered cushions, and Jughead had turned up one day with more stolen herbal teas from Toni to add to the little side-table where Betty had set up an electric kettle. She does most of her homework in here. She has post-its all over the desktop. And they have their murderboard here, which means they’d be spending a lot of time in here even if they  _ weren’t  _ running the school newspaper by themselves.

Kevin had helped them set up the murderboard the Monday after the memorial. It’d been a little messy at first—it’d been days since the files had been stolen from Sheriff Keller, and Kevin’s memory isn’t photographic—but they’d worked it out. Kevin had fretted about it, though, apologizing in case it wasn’t exactly right. 

(“No, Kevin, this is great,” she’d said, boosting herself up so she could sit on the top of Jughead’s desk, and crossing her legs at the knee. “Much better than what we had before.”

Jughead, under his breath, had said, “What we had before was  _ fine _ .”

Betty had waited until Kevin’s back was turned before whacking Jughead in the shoulder.) 

Still, they haven’t really had anybody in here since they interviewed Dilton about the Fourth of July. It doesn’t help her anxiety that Val had been the first girl she’d  _ liked _ . Way back at the start of middle school, when she’d started realizing people were  _ interesting  _ and boys and girls looked  _ good,  _ she’d been confused about her feelings for Archie, and Val had been in her seventh grade English class and partnering with her for a book report. For a grand span of three months, which had felt like an eternity in the world of a twelve year old, she’d fallen head over fucking heels for Val and her vivid eyes. 

“Hey,” says Jughead, and finds a notebook in his desk, tossing it onto the desktop beside the rickety keyboard. “You’re fidgeting.”

Betty twists her fingers tight into the chain of her necklace. “Do you think we should cover the murderboard before they get here?”

“Do you  _ want  _ to cover the murderboard?”

“No, it’ll knock things off pins.” Betty frets, just for a moment, and then untangles her fingers. “This is stupid. I don’t know why I’m nervous. I’m—”

“Hey,” says Jughead again. He puts his hands to her shoulders. “Breathe. Relax. It’s Valerie and Melody and Trev. They’re not cannibals. And I know that for sure cause I kind of know who the cannibals are in town. You eat lunch with one of them.” 

She can’t help it. Betty chokes out a laugh. “I know. I’m just—I don’t know. Just a weird feeling, I guess.” 

“You want to reschedule it?”

“No, it’s fine.” Betty takes another breath. “I’m okay, Jug.” 

“Hi,” says Valerie, and Jughead’s hands recoil from Betty as if he’s been burned. He turns away back to his desk, fast, as the door creaks open. Val peers in, half-smiling. Val is  _ gorgeous _ , and it still hits Betty in the gut, every time; for once she’s not wearing her Pussycat ears, though her T-shirt has a big pawprint in the middle of it, true to brand, and the high-waisted jeans she’s in have leopard print patches on the seams. “We interrupting?”

“No, no worries!” Betty knits her fingers back into her necklace. Melody peeks around the doorframe. Melody’s usually in long, straight wigs, but today she’s gone with box braids, with the braids framing her face changed to a bright and vibrant blue. Behind Melody is Trev, who looks a bit anxious; he’s twisting the hem of his varsity jacket in one hand, and won’t quite meet Betty’s eyes. “I’m glad you guys could make it.” 

“Glad you could, too,” says Val, still half-smiling. “You guys are so busy all the time.” 

Val gives her a hug. Betty almost jumps, before she realizes what’s happening. Val smells like vanilla and something like cumin; Betty hugs her back automatically, trying not to be obvious about her confusion. She gets the feeling Val knows, though; Val’s kind of amused when she pulls back, her eyes all bright and twinkly. 

“Rough couple weeks,” says Val. “Yeah?”

“God, yes.” Betty releases a breath. “Sorry, it’s been—”

“Weird,” Val finishes for her. “Believe me, I get it. We were all at the memorial, Betty.”

“More hugs,” says Melody, and now it’s Melody squashing her into a hug, bright, exuberant Melody, who smells a little like green tea. “It’s a lot nicer in here than it used to be, was that you guys?”

“When were  _ you _ ever in here?” says Val, curiously. Melody pulls away from Betty, and makes a face at Val. 

“My ex could pick locks.”

“I swear to god, Mel, that ex of yours was some kind of criminal.” 

“Excuse you, she was hot and there was a couch in here, of course we were going to break in.” Melody rolls her eyes. “Don’t worry, though, I’m sure it’s been cleaned since then. It was before Naomi graduated. And we only broke in here once.”

Jughead doesn’t say anything, but he shifts, carefully, from the cushions to the arm of the sofa. 

“Hey, Betty,” says Trev. 

“Hey, Trev.” 

“ _ Hey _ ,” says Melody to Trev, and Trev elbows her, for some reason. Melody grins like a Cheshire cat, and perches against the edge of Betty’s desk. 

“You, um—said you wanted to talk about Archie?” Betty twists the chain against her neck again. “What’d you want to ask me?”

“You get right to the point, huh,” says Val, and arches one eyebrow. She doesn’t seem displeased, though. Val hooks her thumbs into the fabric of her jeans pockets. “Archie’s out for another week, but we were thinking—well, me and Melody were thinking, anyway—he’s coming back next week. And my mom’s out of town that weekend for a work thing, so I figured, y’know, it might be nice to have a welcome back party. To make him feel normal, after everything.”

Betty frowns. She does not look at Jughead. She doesn’t look at Trev, either, or at Melody. Betty looks Val right in her pretty green eyes. “So, you’re asking me?”

“I mean, it’d be a surprise for Archie,” says Val. “But I know you and he and—you,” she adds, looking at Jughead as if she just noticed his presence, “are all, like—best friends. So I figured it might be nice if you guys came to support him.” 

She wets her lips, and tries to think.  _ A party?  _ “I don’t know if he’d want us there.”

“Please.” Val rolls her eyes. “I know you guys had a fight about—stuff, after the semi-formal. But you can’t have a  _ welcome back, Archie  _ party without Betty Cooper or Jughead Jones. It’s against nature. And after everything, you know, with Jason and the Twilight and—all of it, I feel like the whole sophomore class needs a party.” 

Betty darts a look at Jughead. Jughead, in turn, hunches into himself, just a little. “Parties aren’t really my scene,” he says, after a moment.

“Oh,” says Melody. “ _ Big  _ surprise, Alucard.”

Jughead blinks.

“I watch cartoons,” Melody says, and hooks her braids behind her ears. “I’m not  _ Josie _ .” 

Trev snorts. 

“Anyway.” Val shrugs. “We wanted to, you know, run it by you. I think it’d help him feel more normal. And, you know, remind him people care about him. Will you come?”

Betty darts another look at Jughead. “I—I mean, I think it’s a great idea, Val, I just—don’t know that he’d want me there.” 

“What, because of what happened at the memorial?” 

Something clenches its jaws around her heart. Betty has to work her throat for a moment or two before she can speak. “Kind of.”

“Maybe that’s true.” Valerie shrugs. “But I still think you should come. The last time I was over there, his mom seemed to think it was a good idea.” 

“Mrs. Andrews is back?”

“Yeah, she came back. He said his dad called her in from Chicago same day as the memorial.”

Betty hasn’t seen Mrs. Andrews at all. Then again, she hasn’t really been looking. “Oh,” she says again, and frets with the hem of her sleeve. “I—I didn’t know that.”

“No reason why you would,” says Val, not unkindly. “It’s not like he’s told anyone else. I think—” She considers. “I know he hasn’t reached out to you guys yet. And I think he talks to me because, you know, I’m not either of you. But I don’t think he’d throw you guys out if you came. And whether he knows it or not, he’s kind of miserable without his best friends, so—I don’t know. Come, or don’t. Up to you.” 

Betty blinks. She opens and shuts her mouth, and can’t think what to say.

“That’s all I had,” says Val. “I’ll text you the day and time, and you can figure it out yourselves. Let me know if you’re coming?”

“Um, sure.” 

Val hugs Betty again—which is still odd, but she’s not sure why—before vanishing out the door. Melody sticks close behind her, waving a little goodbye as she goes. Trev does—not. Trev stands there, anxiously, in the middle of the B&G office, looking at her and away again. Betty tips her head.

“Trev? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He looks at Jughead, for some reason—Jughead, who has shifted to lean against his desk, arms crossed, a slight scowl pulling at his face—before glancing at her again. “So, um—you guys are still working on that whole thing with Jason, huh?” 

“What?” 

Trev’s eyes dart to the murderboard.

“You mean the  _ murderboard? _ ” Jughead says, somewhat nastily. Betty can’t blame him. Even if Trev’s not on the football team anymore, and, to her knowledge, never bullied Jughead the way Jason did, the Bulldogs have never been particularly kind to Jughead. “Yes. We are.” 

“Cool,” says Trev, after a moment. “I mean—I’m glad you guys are looking into it. I—I know Kevin’s dad is investigating, but—I don’t know. You guys caught Grundy where the Sheriff didn’t. Maybe you can figure out what happened to Jason, too.”

“That’s the plan,” says Betty, somewhat awkwardly. It feels  _ weird _ , talking about this with Trev. Trev’s always been one of the guys from the Bulldogs, not really a friend. “Um—did you have a question, or—?” 

Trev coughs. “I—actually wanted to ask if, you know, you’d—want to hang out at Pop’s or something. Sometime.”

It takes her an embarrassingly long time to get it. Betty blinks, and then blinks again, before it processes. “Oh,” she says, and heat flames up into her face. “ _ Oh _ ,” she says again. “Um—” 

“Doesn’t have to be now,” says Trev, quickly. He rubs the back of his neck. “Like, obviously things have been going on, and I know you and Veronica are like, running the Vixens now on top of—this—” He gestures to the murderboard. “So I’m sure you’re super busy—”

Jughead makes an audible scoffing sound, and turns his back on them. 

“I, um—I’m—” Since when does she get  _ this  _ flustered when a boy asks her out? “I—I appreciate it, but I don’t know if—everything is so much right now, and I—”

“No, I totally get it.” Trev smiles, still rubbing the back of his neck. “Like—like I said, it doesn’t have to be now. You can—think about it, or something.” He gives Jughead another look. Jughead still has his back to them, and is fussing with one of the pinned-up newspaper articles about the autopsy report. “Okay?”

“I will,” says Betty. “Definitely.” 

Trev’s smile gets bigger. He backs up a few steps. “Cool,” he says, and then he’s out the door after Melody and his sister. 

“ _ Cool _ ,” says Jughead, sneering just a little. He still hasn’t looked at her, which—something about that stings, in some dark, subterranean space in her chest. “You’d think he’d have better timing.”

“Jug, come on, he just  _ asked _ .” She fans her face, just a little bit. “It—it might not be a bad idea, honestly.”

“Betty, are you serious? Since when are you interested in  _ Trev _ ?”

“I’m  _ not _ ,” Betty snaps. “But he was a  _ Bulldog _ , Jughead. He knew Jason. Maybe he knows something that Sheriff Keller hasn’t found yet.”

Jughead’s scowl tightens.

“It was just a thought,” says Betty. “It’s not like I’d be going on a fake-date with  _ Reggie  _ or something.” 

“Can we just—talk about something else? Please?” 

Betty deflates. “Sure,” she says, and hops up onto the edge of his desk, sitting close enough that she could reach out to him, but far enough not to intrude into his personal space. Jughead’s touchy about football players. She knows that, and she understands it. They’ve shoved him into enough lockers and thrown him into enough dumpsters for him to have a thousand issues with a football jersey. “Just—Trev’s not Reggie, Juggie. And he’s not Jason.”

Jughead jams another pushpin through the article on the autopsy report. “Yeah, well, the football team isn’t on my Secret Santa list.” 

“I know.” And that’s about as far as she’s going to get with this, she thinks. For the moment, anyway. She knocks her heels against the side of his desk. “I haven’t decided anything yet. And I won’t  _ be  _ deciding  _ anything  _ right now, because I’m focusing all my energy on this dinner with the Spellmans tomorrow, and then on finding Polly. So.”

His shoulders are still hitched up to his ears. Still, Jughead turns his head, just a little, to peer at her out of the corner of his eye. 

“If you still want to come with me,” Betty adds, and crosses her fingers against the desk, out of Jughead’s line of sight. Slowly—very slowly—Jughead’s shoulders relax. He tips his head at her, searching her face without blinking. For some reason, blood flushes back up into her cheeks at the look on his face. 

“Of course I’m coming,” he says, after a moment. “That hasn’t changed, Betts.”

“Good,” says Betty, and reaches out with one foot to tap him in the ribs. “I told my mom I’m going to Veronica’s. Veronica told her mom what I’m doing, so—Hermione will cover for me, if my mom calls to check.” 

“Yeah.” 

“So?” Betty nudges him again with her foot. “Did you figure out how we’re getting there? Is Toni driving?”

“Hah,” says Jughead, dryly. “No. I’m borrowing my dad’s bike.”

Betty blinks. That was  _ not  _ what she’d expected. “Do you even have a license?”

“No.” Jughead shrugs. “But I learned how to drive it when I was twelve. And he won’t miss it, he’ll be at the Whyte Wyrm all day tomorrow.”

“You can’t just steal your dad’s bike, Jug.”

“Not like he’ll care,” says Jughead. “Besides, I have to let him know I’m going to Greendale anyway, I’ll tell him I’m borrowing it when I text him tonight. There are loads of notice-me-not spells on it to keep the cops from seeing it, by the way, so it’s not like we’ll get pulled over for being underage.”

“Oh.” Betty bites her lip. “I thought you said there’s a barrier between here and Greendale, how will we get through?”

“The barrier’s fraying in places.” Jughead shrugs. “But Zelda said she’d meet us at the border and guide us to her house.”

She frets with the hem of her cardigan.

“Betty Cooper,” says Jughead, and when she looks up at him, he’s grinning. “Are you  _ scared _ ?”

“What? No.”

“You  _ are _ .” Jughead’s grin gets wider, more crooked. “I’m not going to drive us into a tree, Betts. But—you know, we could always walk. Or maybe ask your mom if you can—”

“Oh my god, fine!” Betty fights the urge to kick him. “Fine, we can take the bike! Just—I just—I don’t know how to—I don’t know how to fix bikes. My dad always said they were death traps.” 

“Only if you drive them slow,” says Jughead. 

“You,” says Betty, “are a  _ dick _ , Jughead Jones.” 

Jughead laughs. 

.

.

.

Archie:  _ thanks man _

Jughead:  _ arch?  _

Jughead:  _ i’ll shut up after this cause i’m probably bugging you but  _

Jughead:  _ good to hear from you, dude _

Jughead:  _ hopefully we’ll see you soon  _


	29. In Every Wicked Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner at the Spellman's. Alice leverages old ties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: cannibalism mentions (ffs Jughead), unrepentant teen horniness, some mentions of the scorebook that Chuck and other football players had, discussion of blood and death, vague mentions of rot and dismembered body parts. This chapter also goes a lot into anxiety issues surrounding meeting / discovering new / unknown family, so if you have issues or trauma around that, be cautious with this whole chapter.

If there’s one thing Betty Cooper is good at, it’s making plans. Back-up plans, secondary back-up plans, contingency plans, to-do lists, pro-and-con lists, strategy guides, community operating plans, writing plans, whatever—you name it, she probably has made a plan for it, whether it was for school, for cheer, for dance, for her parents, or just—life in general. Planning things and understanding all the potential options for fallout makes her feel better about going outside her comfort zone. 

Planning a strategy to find Polly, though, has been completely impossible. None of her attempts to figure out where her sister is through typical snooping has led to anything, and when she finally bit the bullet to ask Jughead to help her with magic—something she’d been avoiding, not wanting to get him in trouble with Thomas—Jughead had shaken his head. 

“There are two types of finding spells, and I can’t do either of them for Polly,” he’d said. “The first one you’d need something that belongs to her, like—hair or nails or something, and then you trace her through those—”

“I mean, her room is right down the hall, I’m sure I could find something—”

“Yeah, but  _ you’d  _ have to be the one to do the spell,” he had said. “Because even if you don’t have the same dad, she’s your sister, and it’ll be your shared blood that the magic will draw on, and—and finding spells aren’t like curses or seances. You could hurt yourself  _ and  _ Polly without preparing properly and it’s—it’s really risky.” 

Betty bit her lip. “What about the second kind?” She drew her legs up underneath her on the bed. “You said there were two. Is that less dangerous?”

“That’s blood magic,” Jughead had said. “And if you don’t know how to stop drawing power from blood, you can bleed out from a pinprick.” 

That—sounds vile. “Why is the finding spell dangerous? We were fine casting the curse on Grundy together.”

“Because curses are—” He fumbled for words. “So—So think of magic as like—there are different ways that magic gets translated for spells. For things like the curse, and the séance, and—even Veronica’s spell of past dealings, you’re asking the magic to do something  _ for  _ you, obtain information or draw a ghost close, and you, as the witch, just being its channel. A finding spell has it in reverse.  _ You  _ are doing something  _ with  _ magic. It’s a completely different skill set.”

“So?”

“So I don’t think I’m strong enough to stop you if something goes wrong,” Jughead said, baldly. “You’re  _ really  _ strong, Betty. I have enough control to stop myself from going too far into a spell, but I can’t stop  _ you _ . When we did the curse for Grundy, that was mostly  _ you _ . I shaped it, but it was a lot of your raw strength. I talked to Veronica, and she said it was the same with her. Like, she guided the spell, but you fueled it. And I’m sure it was the same with the séance. I—to be completely honest, really don’t think I could stop you if something went wrong with a spell you cast.” 

Betty’s tongue had shriveled. “What?”

“Look.” He’d shut his computer, set it aside. “I—I might have more knowledge just from growing up knowing what I was, but everything I know, Razz taught me, or I got out of books I shouldn’t have been reading. Circle witches don’t get fully trained beyond basic control until you’re part of the Circle itself. I’m—technically not supposed to even know how to do the transposition spell, but Razz figured it was safer for me to know once—once I left the trailer park.” 

“Oh.”

“Joaquin will talk to you about this,” Jughead had said, for once not sneering at Joaquin’s name. “But—magic is both a vehicle and a source. It’s an exchange between you and the magic, when you cast spells. You were exhausted after the curse because you pulled a lot of your core strength for it and it drained you. And considering you had no idea you  _ were  _ a witch, your control is amazing. But that doesn’t mean you can jump in with a finding spell right off the bat. I have no idea how to do them, and I wouldn’t want to try it without learning. If you don’t do it properly, then the spell can backfire and hurt the person you’re trying to find.” 

“Oh,” Betty had said, feeling like a parrot. 

“It’s not that I don’t think you can do it,” Jughead had said. “Seriously, I’m pretty sure you could do anything you want. But doing it without training is a setup to get both you and Polly killed. And I can’t help you this time. It has to be you.”

So that plan, her secondary plan—primary being just snooping in her mother’s bank account, which had failed spectacularly—is completely off the table. But Betty plans for  _ everything _ , and she has a back-up in mind. 

Unfortunately, it involves asking complete strangers for a massive favor. 

“You’re sure you can do this practice alone,” says Betty, and smooths her dress out again. Veronica, perched on the nearest sink in her Vixens practice uniform, scoffs, and pushes herself off the edge of the porcelain to stand beside her, catching her eye in the mirror.

“Please. I may not have attended mortal school before now the way you and Cheryl have, B, but there  _ was  _ a dance and acrobatics team at my old school. Little old _moi_ was captain. I can handle myself.”

“Of course.” Betty looks at her reflection in the mirror, and then pulls her hair tie out, finger-combing her hair into laying more smoothly on her shoulders. She’d smuggled her nice pink dress out to school, the one she wore to her dad’s cousin’s daughter’s baptism, and changed clothes as soon as class ended and other students had gone off to extracurriculars. Outside she can hear the Bulldogs chanting their way through the halls towards the football field. In the next room over, the auditorium, variety show auditions are setting up. Archie might be in the auditorium, waiting for his turn. She sucks in air, and lets it out. “I’m—”

She loses her voice. 

“Kind of flipping out?” Veronica rubs her back. “You look like I felt right before my Dark Baptism. You’ll be  _ fine _ . It’s not like you’re signing the Book just by going to a dinner. And  _ yes _ , I know, if I say that in Jughead’s hearing he will probably light his own hat on fire, but Betty, you’re going to dinner with family. You’re not selling your soul.”

“Yeah.” She twists her hair, just for a moment, trying to get it to lay flat against her collarbone. It won’t. It’s been in its ponytail too long today; there’s a noticeable kink midway down that she won’t be able to get rid of. “Um—”

Veronica rubs her back, and meets her gaze in the mirror. “What?” 

“What do I do?” She doesn’t know how to  _ say  _ this, doesn’t know how to speak about the massive, swelling feeling inside her. How do you even  _ talk  _ to people who might be—are—your family, who you didn’t know about, who didn’t know about you? What is she even supposed to say to them?  _ Hi, my mom had an affair with your cousin, and he’s dead and I’m not? Hi, I’m a witch who belongs to your family? Hi, we lived forty-five minutes apart and never knew the other existed? Do you want me in your family? Will we get along? Will I see parts of me in you and you in me? _ Saying any of it aloud would be too  _ much _ . So she doesn’t. “I don’t know what to say to them, Veronica.” 

“How about  _ hi _ ?” Veronica says, and Betty hiccups out a laugh. “Seriously, B. Out of any family in the Church of Night, the Spellmans are the ones I would have picked to be your family. And they  _ will  _ say you’re family. They’ve been in Greendale since it was founded, Mami says, and they’re pretty well known for being forward-thinking and—well, kind of  _ out there _ . But in a good way. Okay?” 

Betty grips the edge of the sink. “Yeah.”

“And if they don’t want you then you and me and Mami can move out to the woods and start a little coven of our own, girls only, and sacrifice the entire football team to the Dark Lord.”

She chokes. “ _ Veronica _ .”

“What?” Veronica’s eyes dance, but it’s not just humor. There’s something wicked and wild in her face that makes Betty think of curses. “You think Weatherbee’s punishment for that stupid scorebook was good enough? Chuck gets suspended and the rest get off completely free? That’s garbage and you know it.”

Betty bites the inside of her cheek. Her phone buzzes in her skirt pocket. “Put a pin in that,” she says, and turns back to the mirror. Her eyes are red. She smooths her hair with both hands, trying to pretend she’s not shaking. “I gotta go. Jughead’s probably outside.”

“Yeah.” Veronica tips her head, and puts her temple to Betty’s shoulder. “We got you, B. You’ll be fine. No matter what.” 

Betty takes a shuddering breath. She turns, and hugs Veronica hard. Veronica makes a happy noise, and hugs her back, petting Betty’s hair, just for a moment. 

“Go,” says Veronica. “You don’t want to be late. And take pictures so I have proof of life.” 

Betty nods, and slips out the bathroom door towards the parking lot.   
  
She should have checked her text before heading outside. Jughead's in the back parking lot, not the front. Better to hide the bike from teachers, she thinks, as she heads back into the school and makes her way through the halls, but still. Somewhat annoying. By the time she gets out there he's been waiting for a good five minutes, and there are already apologies on her lips as she opens the door. Her voice, though, dries up as soon as she steps out into the brisk autumn air. 

The bike is bigger than she thought it would be. She’s never been this close to a motorcycle before, and this one, she thinks, must be built as much as for show as it is for speed. She’s desperately  _ wanted  _ to get her hands on a motorcycle, if only to figure out how they work and what their motors are like, but her dad—her heart clenches—had always been adamant.  _ Motorcycles are deathtraps meant for drug addicts and gangsters, Betty. Fifties’ Fuelies are where you want to go if you want something snarling and gorgeous and most importantly, American-made. _ Her dad’s 1957 Chevy has been sitting in the garage this whole time, left behind when Hal had taken a suitcase and gone to stay in the back room at the  _ Register _ . She hasn’t had the heart to touch it, though she can’t say she hasn’t gone down to look at it a few times. 

Jughead pulls his helmet off. It’s matte black, with some battering around the back as if someone’s worn it in a tumble. He’s dressed up; not the suit and tie from the memorial, but his jeans are clean, and he’s in a button-down shirt she’s never seen before. Something hot and sleek builds up her throat. Jughead looks—

She swallows. 

Jughead looks  _ hot _ , she thinks. It’s the first time she’s  _ let  _ herself think it. Jughead on a motorcycle with dark jeans and boots and his hair mussed from the motorcycle helmet. She’s never noticed it before, but--but he’s good-looking, in a sharp sort of way, pale skin and angular jaw and hair she suddenly wants to  _ touch _ . She thinks it, and then she crushes it underneath her shoe, because she won’t  _ do  _ this again. She  _ can’t  _ do this again. Jughead’s the most important person in her life right now, the only person she can rely on with all her secrets. She  _ can’t  _ tangle that up with stupid—stupid hormones. She takes a breath, and lets it out. 

“Hey,” Betty says, and comes down the stairs of the school. Jughead’s settled his helmet in his lap, and gone to fidgeting with the handlebars of the bike. “Sorry I made you wait.”

“No, it’s—fine.” Jughead clears his throat. “You’d better get on before someone notices. There are notice-me-not spells on here but I’m pretty sure Weatherbee is immune to it. Like he’s immune to accessibility requests and common kindness.” 

“And justice,” Betty says, half under her breath. 

“What?”

“Nothing. Just—Veronica made me think of that—horrible book the football team had. The scorebook, with everyone in it?”

“Ah,” says Jughead, delicately. “The book of sexual conquests and rampant misogyny.”

“You’re hyperbolic today,” Betty says.

“The concept of dinner with Satanists puts me in that mood.” He lifts one shoulder. “Better pray they don’t have long pig on the menu.”

“Long pig?”

Jughead arches a brow. “Human, Betty. Long pig is human.”

Her gut churns. “Hilda—Hilda didn’t strike me as the type to—you know.”

“Kill and eat babies?” says Jughead, and lifts his shoulder again. “Hilda—probably not. Zelda, who knows. But for the evening I’m temporarily vegetarian, thank you very much.”

“Great,” says Betty under her breath, and casts another look at the bike. It’s huge, but still a bit small to have two people on it, she thinks. She bites her lip. “Um—how do I—”

“Oh.” Jughead offers her the helmet. “Take this first.”

“You should wear that, you’re driving.”

“And I’ve ridden a bike before.” His mouth quirks. “You haven’t and—honestly you kind of look like you’re about to freak out and take the bike apart, and we kind of need to get there before four.”

“I am not going to  _ freak out _ , I just—” She looks at the bike again. “Are we sure that’s the only way to get there? Can’t we just—use the transposition door or—”

He tips his head back and forth. “We  _ could _ ,” he says, at the height of sanctimony, “but I’m pretty sure your cousins would serve  _ me _ for dinner if I tried to walk in their front door without warning.” 

Betty bites her lip. 

“Betts.” Jughead’s mouth goes crooked. “It’ll be fine. This thing is spelled within an inch of its life to keep the riders safe and make sure nobody gets hurt. The helmet’s a precaution. You just gotta hold on.”

Betty rubs her hands together. Then she snatches the helmet away from him. “Fine,” she says. “But drive  _ safely _ or I’m—I’m doing my own transposition door and I might end up in Los Angeles.” 

“I knew I shouldn’t have taught you how to do those.” 

It takes her a moment to put the helmet on properly; another moment to pull on a pair of leather gloves which Jughead insists she take. They’re clearly women’s gloves, and when she asks, he fidgets, uncomfortably. “They were my mom’s,” he says. “I—found them in the storage compartment under the seat. She must have forgotten them when she left.” 

Betty barely remembers Mrs. Jones, but somehow she didn’t expect Jughead’s mother to be a motorcycle rider. Then again, she also can’t quite see the dark-haired woman she remembers being a witch, either, and she clearly was from what little Jughead has said about her. Still, the gloves fit, or nearly do, and once the gloves are on and Jughead’s confirmed she’s wearing close-toed shoes (which she’d found out she should be, via googling the night before), she clambers onto the back of the bike, tucks her skirt in close around her legs so it won’t get caught in the rear wheel, and very, very carefully puts her arms around his waist. The heavy weight of his jean jacket rubs rough against her chin when she rests it to his shoulder.

“Ready?” says Jughead. Betty feels something shifting in his coat. Razz. There’s a little fussy sound, probably Razz scolding Jughead, and Betty takes a deep breath. He smells like Pop Tate’s and like her shampoo and her family’s laundry soap, from when they snuck a load of his clothes into the wash while her mom was out of the house. She takes another breath, and squeezes her arms tighter around his waist, hoping he can’t feel her heart pounding against his back. “If you want me to stop just tap me a few times on the right shoulder, okay?”

“Yeah.” The chinstrap on the helmet squeezes tight against her throat, and she shifts her head. “We’re stopping at the bridge, right?”

“For Zelda to let us through.” He shifts forward, and turns a key, and then the engine  _ roars  _ beneath them. It’s like a lion. “Hold tight.” 

It takes her until they’re on the main road out of Riverdale before Betty starts to like it. It’s all roaring wind and the engine so close and warm. She should be freezing, especially with the cold snap they’ve been having lately, but even with the sharp wind and the rush of it, her heart’s racing. She thought her eyes would be watering more. As they swing off of Main Street towards the bridge, Jughead tightens his grip on the throttle and the bike shoots forward, and Betty can’t help it; she laughs, the sound getting whipped away with the wind. The statistics about motorcycle crashes and likelihood of death or shattered skulls seem very far away when they coast up on Riverside Road and aim towards the Sweetwater Bridge, between the river and Fox Forest. 

When Betty looks to the side, towards the Sweetwater, she sees a figure all in white, standing in the middle of the river. It’s Jason. She knows it in her bones. A slim, pale shade, with a shock of crimson hair at the top. She can’t see the rot of him from here. He must be trapped there, in the water where his body had been left behind. She wonders if that’s how witches ghosts are, if they don’t go to the beyond or—wherever it is witches go. She’s never believed in heaven or hell like her dad does, but the idea of being left behind and stuck in the water—even for a boy like Jason, the idea of that breaks her heart. 

There’s a massive black car—a hearse, she thinks—waiting on the opposite side of the bridge. It’s parked just off the road; Jughead slows the bike, and comes to a shuddering stop beside it as Zelda rolls down the window of her hearse. She’s in sunglasses with sharp cats-eye points, and her lipstick is the color of blood as she says, “I was under the impression you would be  _ driving _ my cousin, not—balancing.” 

“I am,” says Jughead. Betty shifts her arms around him, and locks her hands together against his chest. The gloves are making her fingers slip. She wets her lips. 

“Hi,” she says. “I—we didn’t get a chance to talk at the memorial.”

“No, we did not.” Zelda tips her sunglasses forward, surveys them over the lenses. “Well. We’ll have a chance to speak at the house. Unless we’re waiting for something in particular?” 

Betty shakes her head. “Well, my familiar, but—he’ll find me.”

Zelda blinks. “I was under the impression you’d not yet chosen a familiar, niece. Unless the Circle provided a book of goblins to choose from?”

Being observed by Zelda Spellman shakes her nerves to pieces. Betty wets her lips, and straightens just a little, automatically. “I didn’t want to go to Thornhill without one,” she says, and swallows back ice. “I—summoned one, in the woods. He’s following after.” 

“Ah.” Zelda considers her, her green eyes—green, like Betty’s, like Alice’s—flicker over Betty’s face. She pushes her sunglasses back up. “I see. It’s traditional for Spellmans to choose a familiar from the Lovecraft family—similar to the Blossoms, to my understanding, though the Spellmans have a much longer relationship with that family and its goblin breeding line. Which  _ you  _ would know all about, I suppose, boy.” 

“My mom left her goblin breeding behind with the Church of Night,” says Jughead. “So I don’t have a clue. Actually.” 

Betty looks at Jughead. She can’t make out his face, just his ear and the side of his jaw, but his teeth are clenched. Betty hesitates, and then presses her hand to Jughead’s side, out of sight of Zelda. Jughead turns, just enough to show that he’s noticed, and shifts just a little on the seat of the motorcycle. 

“Well,” says Zelda. “More’s the pity. My niece Sabrina will be baptized this coming October, and it necessitates her choosing a familiar. I don’t wish her to be baptized without a proper familiar, despite the certain—lackadaisical approach the Circle seems to take with their baptisms.”

“We don’t do baptisms,” says Jughead. 

“Ah, yes, I forgot.” Zelda’s lips curve up into a thin smile. “Your initiations. A charming custom.”

Betty wonders if she could possibly smack them both upside the head without getting slaughtered. 

“Shall we?” says Zelda, and rolls up her window. 

.

.

.

“What?”

“Is this Hog Eye?”

“Who’s this?”

“....Alice.”

“Who?”

“...Alice. Smith.”

“ _ Jesus. _ Al, fuck. Didn’t think  _ you’d  _ ever call here again.”

“Yeah, long time.”

“Don’t you run the paper now?”

“I’m editor-in-chief, yes.” 

“Big change.”

“Yeah. Listen, I need to speak to Lavender.”

“Lavender’s not here. And you fuckin’ know better to call up asking for a Founder when you hung us out to dry, Al, who—”

“Lavender’s been talking to my daughter about Morty, Hog Eye. She had no  _ right _ .”

“I’m sayin’ this as an old friend, Al. Which considering what you did, you got precious few of in this bar. You need to back the fuck off and leave Lavender alone. If she’s talking to your daughter about Morty, there’s a reason, and you need to stay well out of it.”

“Hog Eye—”

“Seriously, Al.”

“That wasn’t her secret to tell.”

“No, it was yours. And a damn lot of good it did you keepin’ it quiet all this time. I heard your husband up and left you for it.”

“Fuck you, Hog Eye.”

“Sweet as always, Al.”

“Screw this. I want to speak to FP.”

“He’s not here.”

“Don’t give me that shit.”

“No shit, Al. FP’s not here. And don’t call back again looking for him. Next person who picks up might not be so nice as me.” 

.

.

.

Greendale is as like and as unlike Riverdale as a reflection in a funhouse looking glass. There’s a main street, trees turning colors, a movie theatre that looks almost as old as the Twilight had been. Betty holds tighter to Jughead’s waist as they drive through town, and watches the people on the sidewalk. Riverdale is a town full of forties and fifties architecture, post-war buildings and concepts. This place is much older. All the buildings are brick, and when they pull to a stop at an intersection she can make out a green historic plaque that reads  _ Old Town Greendale, founded 1643 by English settlers.  _ Riverdale is seventy-five years old this year; Greendale is almost four hundred. And there’s something in the air, here, not—it’s not quite ethereal, but it just feels different. Dimmer, though sunset isn’t for another hour at least. She tucks her chin over Jughead’s shoulder again, and watches the traffic light.

“You okay?” Jughead says, pitched so she can hear him over the purr of the engine. Betty nods, and wraps her arms tighter around his ribs. 

“Fine.”

Zelda takes them on a winding path out of Greendale, past Baxter High School (Betty flips a subtle bird to the Ravens logo as they pass) and down an unmarked road that leads through Fox Forest. It’s another fifteen minutes out of town before the hearse finally slows, its lefthand blinker flickering for a moment before Zelda turns down a long gravel drive. Jughead leans, and Betty leans with him as they go.

The house they pull up to is old, probably three stories, and gothic-Victorian, or something along those lines. There’s a sign beside the front steps that reads  _ Spellman Mortuary: Funerals, Burials & Rites _ . It looks, she thinks, like every little kid thinks that a witch house should look like, complete with a graveyard beside the long driveway, the house set back amongst old and sugar-dusted trees. Jughead props his foot to the ground and turns off the bike, and Betty lets go of his waist, feeling abruptly cold as she swings off the motorcycle. 

The hearse has pulled to a stop beside the house, the engine puttering to a standstill as Betty straightens her skirt, pulls her jacket closer around herself. When she swings off the bike and takes off the helmet, Jughead takes it from her to hang on the handlebar, adjusting it unnecessarily so he doesn’t have to look at her. 

“It feels—” She hadn’t felt anything in Thornhill—if anything, she still thinks she  _ should  _ have, especially if Ell had been feeling something—but here, it’s different. There’s a weight in the air she can’t work into words. Not like Fox Forest, or the Sweetwater, but something sweet and heavy in the air nonetheless. “It feels — ”

Jughead looks at her through his lashes, and says nothing. 

“It feels like—” She wets her lips. “Like—caramel? Darker. Like—syrup. But not maple syrup, just—something—heavy, and—thick, but not—it’s not—it’s—”

The slam of the hearse’s door snaps her out of it. Betty takes a breath, shakes her head. “Sorry.”

“Why?” He sounds genuinely curious. Jughead still won’t meet her eyes, though. “You’re a Spellman. You were guaranteed to feel something on Spellman land.” 

“I’m a Cooper,” says Betty. “And I didn’t—I wasn’t sure it’d be that  _ much _ .” 

Jughead reaches out, and tugs the sleeve of her coat, looking over her shoulder at the door. Zelda’s already marched up the steps to the front door, and seems to be waiting for them. Betty can make out a dim red glow from the tip of Zelda’s cigarette, even in the dark around the doorway.

“Hey,” says Jughead. She turns back to him. “Whenever you want to leave, just tell me and we’ll go. We don’t have to stay the whole time. Or at all. Okay?”

She rubs her sweaty palms on her skirt, and nods. Her fingers are shaking, badly. “Okay.”

“I mean it,” Jughead says. “Say the word and we can go. If you’re not ready, then—”

He peters out, clearly not sure what else to say.

“I need to know, Jug.” She wipes her palms clean again. “I—I need to know who my father was. I need to know what my mom is trying to hide from me. I—I need to know what they—” She tips her head towards the mortuary “—know. About—me. About my magic. What I can do. So I can find Polly and save her.” 

_ Betty, you have to find Polly. You have to protect them from our families. You have to keep them safe from what’s in that house.  _

For a second, she feels a cold, rotting tongue against her cheek. Betty swallows, and scrubs the sensation away. “I just—I need to be here. But—if something happens, we can definitely leave.” 

Jughead searches her face. Whatever he’s looking for, he seems to find it. “Okay,” he says. After a second or two, he nods. “Okay.” 

“So—the safe word is waffles,” says Betty, after a moment, and he snorts. 

“Yeah, that works.”

“Thank you for coming with me,” she blurts out, and Jughead swings off the bike, too. He doesn’t hug her, but he does touch a hand to the small of her back and leaves it there. His palm scorches through the fabric of her jacket, her dress. 

“I’m on your side, remember?” 

Her heart swells and swells, and Betty loops an arm around his ribs under his coat to hug him. She can’t speak. Jughead tucks his arm awkwardly around her shoulders, just for a moment, before clearing his throat. 

“We should probably go in before your cousin kills me.”

Betty sniffs, and wipes persistent dampness away from the corners of her eyes. Her throat squeezes. “Yeah, probably.”

It takes her a second to get her shit together. A second, a breath, nails in her palm. Betty inhales, and then she steps away from Jughead, making for the stairs up into the mortuary. 

Hilda’s emerged from inside the house, in the time it took for Betty to gather her control. She looks just the same as she did for the séance: round, dowdy, and dusty, with brightly colored eyeshadow more suited to the 1960s and a dress like a housekeeper in a Christie novel. There’s a black man beside her, looking like he’s barely broken into his twenties, barefoot and in a silk dressing gown that’s been plucked straight from  _ The Great Gatsby _ .  _ Ambrose _ , Betty thinks. Jughead had said there was a warlock named Ambrose. And—Betty blinks—a small blonde girl, probably around their age, who seems to be bouncing on the balls of her feet.  _ Sabrina _ .

“Betty,” says Hilda, and moves abortively, cutting herself off before she can get more than a step closer. Her victory curls wobble a little, and her eyes seem wet. “I—can I give you a hug, dear? Only—”

“Um,” says Betty, “sure,” and then she’s engulfed in a warm, powdery hug. Hilda smells like garden earth and lemons, and she pats at Betty’s back like she’s a small child. Something tiny and lost and frozen inside her cracks, just a little, at how  _ gentle  _ it is. For all that Hilda and Zelda are near total unknowns, Hilda is gentle, and that’s something that’s hard to fake. 

“We’re glad you came, darling,” says Hilda, soft into her ear, and then lets her go. There are absolutely tears in her eyes, and Betty, all of a sudden, feels swept away. “We hoped you would, but we weren’t sure if your mother would let you.”

“My mom doesn’t know I’m here.” Betty tucks her hair behind her ear. She’d left it down on a whim, but now it feels—it’s making her feel vulnerable, not having it in a ponytail. Like she’s too soft. “I told her I was at a friend’s house.” 

Zelda pulls her cigarette holder from her lips, and blows smoke that has a distinctly clove-y scent. “ _ Mortals _ ,” she says, as if this is an explanation in and of itself. She taps her cigarette ash off onto the porch, and then says, “Well, come in and let us look at you, Elizabeth. No one will get anything done out here in the dark.” 

“Bite your tongue, Auntie Zee, I do my best work in the dark,” says Ambrose. His eyes dip to Jughead, and he gives him a long, rolling look, from boots to hat. Jughead’s neck is bright red. “Didn’t think we’d see  _ you  _ anytime soon, though, Serpent Prince.” 

“I asked him to come,” Betty says, almost stumbling over it. Something about the way Ambrose is looking at Jughead is making her uncomfortable. Ambrose gives Jughead another thoughtful look before shifting his focus to her, and the corner of his mouth ticks up, as if he’s seen something very funny in the air between them. “All of this is still, um. New for me. And—” 

“And she’s still under Circle protection,” says Jughead, “which means that until she tells me not to, I’m coming with her.” 

Betty blinks. Something—something in his voice, or the way he’s standing up straighter—makes her think of Jughead in the Whyte Wyrm. This is Serpent Prince Jughead, she thinks. Not Riverdale High Jughead, or the Jughead  _ she  _ knows, her best friend Jughead who sleeps on her floor and watches her make pancakes on Saturday mornings while her mom’s not home. His voice is a little different, a little raspier, and he stands up straighter, instead of hunching down to make himself less of a target. He looks Zelda in the eye, and adds, “May we both come in?”

Sabrina, the youngest one, looks intrigued. Her dark eyes jump to her aunts, and then back to Betty, and Betty feels uncoiled, frayed around the edges as if someone’s unwinding a sweater right off her body. Hilda bites her lower lip, and also looks at Zelda, wringing her hands. 

“Zelda,” she says, after a moment. “Honestly.”

Zelda blows more smoke. Then she lifts her chin, and says, “Any Circle witch or warlock who is serving my niece’s best interests will be welcome in this house, so long as the Accord is upheld.”

“So long as the Accord is upheld,” says Jughead, “then we accept your hospitality.”

For a long, taut moment, Betty thinks there’s going to be a fight. Then Ambrose clears his throat—it echoes like a gunshot across the porch—and says, “Aunt Hilda?”

“Oh!” Hilda pats her hands to her cheeks. “Right, sorry, dear—um, Betty—do you prefer Betty?”

“Yeah.”

“Betty, this is Ambrose, our cousin—”

Ambrose reaches out, and catches Betty’s hand, bending over it for a moment. “Charmed.” 

“Oh, stop,” says Hilda, but she looks pleased. “He’s a dreadful flirt, ignore him—and this is our niece, Sabrina. She’s about your age, I think.”

“Hi,” says Sabrina. She has very dark eyes, and Betty can’t make out how she’s feeling. She can’t really make out any of their magic, either. The feel of the Spellmans is all over them, but even when Sabrina reaches out and gives her a delicate hug, only for a second or two, Betty can’t feel anything from her other than caramel. Then Sabrina makes a face, wrinkling her nose. “Aunt Hilda, I think the pie is burning.”

“Oh,  _ damn _ ,” says Hilda, and she zips back into the house like she’s been hit with a poker. Ambrose grins at them all, his teeth a flash of white in the dark, before taking up a position by the door, sweeping his arm out like some old-fashioned footman waving a guest into a manorhouse. 

“Honored guests,” he says. “ _ Et famille. Entrez. _ ”

The interior of the Spellman house is exactly what a witch’s house should be, she thinks. Floral wallpaper and dusty carpets and a big staircase that seems to lead up into a labyrinth of a house. There are statues of goats and stuffed deer heads on the walls and a massive skylight made of colored glass in the living room, which somehow hasn’t cracked or fractured anywhere despite Hilda informing her it’d been brought with them in pieces on the ship they’d sailed in on, back in the 1600s. And it  _ had  _ been them, though they’d been much younger—“younger than you, dear,” Hilda had said, as though it’s completely normal to admit she and Zelda were almost in their fifth century”—and could barely remember the journey. All in all, it feels—magical isn’t the right term. It feels  _ otherworldly _ , and inside the air is even heavier with that feeling, the caramel-honey-amber feeling of what must be Spellman magic. 

Jughead sticks close. They all stick close. Betty has the distinct sense of being one tiny fish in a mass of sharks, which may or may not be on the verge of swallowing her whole. There’s a door in the living room marked with a tattered sign that reads  _ Employees Only _ —“the embalming room,” says Ambrose, watching her with sharp dark eyes, and Betty tries not to think about the dead people beneath their feet—but other than that this place just seems like a  _ house.  _ A home. Someone has a half-finished jigsaw puzzle of a Monet painting on the coffee table in the living room; there’s a wicker basket of yarn and knitting needles beside the logs for the fireplace; and a taxidermized beagle sits in pride of place when they trail in after Hilda and pause on the threshold of the kitchen/ 

“That’s Aunt Zelda’s familiar,” says Sabrina, when Betty gives the beagle a second glance. Sabrina’s been quiet this whole time, watching Betty like she’s unsure what to make of the situation as a whole.  _ Same, honestly.  _ “Vinegar Tom. He died before I was born, but Aunt Zelda hasn’t wanted to get another familiar. She says it’s because there’s not another dog in his bloodline, but I think it’s because she misses him too much to consider replacing him.”

“ _ Sabrina _ ,” snaps Zelda. “Mephistopheles help us, don’t dawdle, go and help your aunt Hilda with the plates.”

Sabrina rolls her eyes, and darts off to obey. Betty looks at Jughead, and cocks an eyebrow. Over Jughead’s shoulder, Ambrose catches her eye and drops her a wink. He leans over. 

“Aunt Zelda’s bark is much worse than her bite,” Ambrose says, half under his breath. A waft of something chemical mixed with that Spellman magic hits her in the face. Betty nearly sneezes. “If she snarls at you, it means she likes you.”

“Ambrose!” Zelda snaps, and Ambrose draws his hands out of his dressing gown pockets to lope into the kitchen. He bumps into Jughead as he passes, turning to grin at them both on the threshold. 

“Sorry, Serpent Prince. I’ll keep my hands to myself, I swear.”

Jughead’s neck is the color of a boiled lobster. “Fine.”

“Dinner will be ready in just a tick, loves,” says Hilda, and settles a pie that looks about the same size as a beach ball on the top of their old-fashioned gas stove. “This just has to sit for a bit—and there’s still whipped cream to make, but that’s easy, isn’t it, just put it in the stand mixer and off it goes—”

“Aunt Hilda’s been cooking all day,” says Sabrina by the dish cupboard, and grins a little bit when Hilda turns red. “I think she changed her mind about the menu like, eighty times—”

“Keep your sass to yourself, missy,” says Hilda, and peers at Betty. “Vegetable pie  _ is  _ all right, isn’t it, dear, only I’m vegetarian and—and I thought, since I didn’t know if you had any allergies or preferences, vegetables were relatively safe—”

“It smells amazing,” says Betty. “Thank you.” She bites her lip. “Can I—help, or—” 

“No, you and your friend are fine.” Hilda shoos them away with both hands. “Sabrina, when you’ve finished with the plates, why don’t you show Betty and—”

She falters, just for a moment.

“Jughead,” says Betty, and Hilda’s eyes light up.

“Yes, sorry, dear—why don’t you show Betty and Jughead the greenhouse, before it gets dark? By the time you come back in we should be all ready in here.”

“Yeah,” says Sabrina, darting them another funny little look. “Sure, Aunt Hilda. Do you guys, um, want to see the greenhouse, or—”

“The greenhouse sounds great,” says Betty, because  _ anything  _ to get out of this stilted, awkward conversation, even if the pie  _ does  _ smell delicious. “Should we wait here, or—”

“Just follow me,” says Sabrina, and heaves a stack of heavy plates up into her arms. 

Betty gets the feeling the dining room gets less use than the kitchen table, and when she spies Sabrina making a face at one of the tapestries on the wall, she thinks she guessed right. “I hate that thing,” Sabrina says, quietly, and puts the last plate on a placemat as she stares hard at the picture of a black goat on the wall. “When I was a kid I thought it was always watching me.”

“I heard once that there are always pictures of Lucifer in Sa—Church houses because it’s his way of checking on people,” says Jughead. It’s the first time he’s spoken since they made their way inside, and it makes Betty jump. “That he watches through graven images of himself.” 

“Oh, my aunties say that’s a myth.” Still, Sabrina gives the picture of the goat another leery look, tucking her hair behind her ears with both hands. “Anyway, um. Aunt Hilda says that you didn’t know you were a witch until the last few weeks, but they didn’t really tell me what happened. If you don’t mind talking about it, then—”

“I don’t mind,” says Betty. “Though it’s not a very interesting story.”

“That’s okay.” Sabrina tips her head towards a door disguised in the wallpaper. “The greenhouse is this way. And if there’s a thorned vine on the floor, try not to step on it. It only listens to Aunt Hilda and it might rip your dress before we can get it to let go.”

_ Like that’s not fucking terrifying. _

Ambrose turns up partly through Betty’s explanation of her powers, and the spell of past dealings, and what had happened at the Twilight. Sabrina perches on a stool beside a worktable that has a jar of what looks like human hands on the far end—Betty studiously does not look at this—and props her chin in one hand as she listens. There’s a lot Betty  _ doesn’t  _ go into—Veronica being her triad sister, the Blossoms, Polly, Jason, the memorial, the séance, her dad moving out—but Sabrina doesn’t ask, not right away; she mulls it over, twisting a coil of blonde hair around her finger like a corkscrew. Then she says, “And your mom doesn’t want to talk to you about it?”

“More like she pretends nothing is going on,” says Betty. She’s found a bench of her own, and settled there, resting her hands in her lap so she can hide her palms against the fabric of her dress. Jughead’s standing beside her like a bodyguard, arms protectively crossed. “It’s been happening a lot lately.”

“Does she know?” Ambrose says, curiously. “What you are?”

“No, and I don’t want to tell her.” Betty takes a breath. “She’s—first off I don’t even know if she’d  _ believe  _ it, and secondly I don’t—the fewer people who know, the safer my whole family is.”

“Is Riverdale really that bad?” says Sabrina.

“Yes,” says Jughead, before Betty can speak. “There are still hunters sniffing around after what happened at the Twilight.”

Betty looks up at him. She hadn’t heard  _ that _ . Judging by the way Jughead is steadfastly refusing to meet her eyes, he deliberately hasn’t mentioned it. Which they will be talking about as soon as they get back to Riverdale. 

“Besides, Betty’s mom is the head of the only newspaper in Riverdale. Telling her would be like waving a cape at a bull saying  _ hey morons, we’re right here. _ ”

“Especially because you’re half-mortal, I’d expect,” says Ambrose, and picks a bit of lavender off a nearby plant to tuck it behind his ear. “Though let’s not talk of such things yet, if we can help it. No one wants to think about witch hunters.”

“I’m half-mortal too,” says Sabrina. “I don’t know if my aunties told you. My mom was mortal, like yours, Betty.”

Betty blinks. “She was?”

“She and my dad died in an accident when I was a baby.” She says it lightly, though for the first time Betty thinks she catches a shadow of something in Sabrina’s dark eyes. “But he was a warlock. It’s not really common here in Greendale I don’t think, but—but you’re not the only one, I guess. Aunt Hilda and Aunt Zelda took me in when they died and they’ve raised me here, so—I guess what I’m trying to say is, you know, don’t worry. They were really excited about you coming to dinner. Like— _ really _ excited.”

“Aunt Zelda almost pushed me out a window when I told her we didn’t have to dust the dining room five times,” says Ambrose. 

“And Aunt Hilda cried when they added you to the family tree in the library,” Sabrina adds. “I think they’re both really scared you won’t like them, honestly. It’s why they’re being so weird. Well, weirder than usual.”

“And just as a warning,” says Ambrose, and plucks another little bit of lavender, offering it to her with a flourish. “We’re  _ fairly  _ certain they’re planning on giving you a gift when we go back inside, so try not to be too overwhelmed.  _ This  _ one—” He gives Jughead another look “—mentioned you’ve been having dreams, and they pulled every book in the library they could find about dreamsight. You may be crushed if you try to pick them up, but they’re excitable as a rule. The aunts, not the books. Though one or two books in that box might try to bite if you don’t ask permission before opening them up.”

Something swells in her chest like a balloon. Betty smiles, and her lips tremble, just a bit. “Oh,” she says, and her voice is husky, cracking to pieces. Jughead bumps closer to her, until her shoulder is against his hip, he’s standing so close. She can’t help leaning against his leg, tipping her head until her hair just barely brushes against his heavy denim jacket. “I—Thanks.”

“No problem,” says Sabrina, and a shy smile flickers across her face. “We’re family, right?”

_ Oh _ , she thinks, and the balloon in her chest bursts. Her eyes go hot. Tears spill over, and in the split second before her vision blurs out, she sees utter horror jump to Sabrina’s face. “Oh, god,” says Sabrina, and then there’s both a tissue and a handkerchief (Sabrina and Ambrose, respectively) shoved in front of her face. “Oh, god, Betty, I didn’t mean to make you cry—”

“It’s okay,” says Betty, but it’s through a faceful of kleenex. “I’m okay.” 

Jughead rests his hand to her shoulder, and squeezes. 

.

.

.

Alice:  _ This is Alice Smith. We need to talk.  _

Unknown Number:  _ how did u get this # _

Alice:  _ I’m a journalist, FP. I find things. _

Alice:  _ Your son is taking my daughter around town to poke her nose into the past, and Lavender’s helping them. So is Thomas. I want it to stop.  _

Alice:  _ Call when you can talk. _

_ Incoming Call from: Unknown Number _


	30. A Wealth of Wicked Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zelda makes demands. Jughead tries to deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for: self worth / self image issues, minor panic / feelings of being overwhelmed, tension between new and old family, feelings of inadequacy, implications of intra-family emotional abuse, body-shaming and implications of controlled diets, depictions of alcoholism and alcohol abuse, arguments between parents, child abandonment, and child neglect. 
> 
> Be sure to scroll all the way to the bottom for a surprise!

In the wake of everything that’s happened lately, all the murders and curses and family dramas, dinner at the Spellmans goes—okay. It’s not like it’s any less awkward when she and Jughead come back in from the greenhouse, but it feels less like it’s been built on shaky ground. Despite all the inherent strangeness of it all, Hilda and Zelda seem to  _ want  _ to know her. Ambrose and Sabrina are downright eager about it. She’s not sure what’s weirder about the whole thing, the circumstances or the fact that the whole Spellman family keeps her in the center of attention the entire time they’re there. 

Even Ell turning up about halfway through the vegetable pie and salad is a benefit, and not an embarrassment. She’d panicked when she’d first heard him, since he’d clawed so hard at the front door of the Spellman house that he left gouge marks in the wood. “It’s fine,” Zelda says, when Betty stammers out an apology. “There’s been worse damage done to that door. Easily repaired.” She’s clearly  _ much  _ more interested in the sight of Ell, and his hulking, awkward shoulders. “Hilda, do we still have the Spellman registry out on the hall table?”

Hilda, echoing from the dining room, says, “I think so, Zelds, why?”

“Because I believe,” says Zelda, with supreme satisfaction, “that our long-lost niece is the first in our family to have a hyena as a familiar.” 

“Have a  _ what _ ,” Hilda squawks, and then they all troop out, all the Spellmans, to fawn over Ell where he’s placed himself on the hall carpet. Ell, clearly much more intrigued at the concept of being fawned over than Betty is,  _ preens _ . 

“You’re a showoff,” Betty says to him, as Hilda coos something in what sounds like French and then bustles off to get him a rabbit, because apparently witches just—have dead rabbits in their refrigerators. Ell licks his lips. 

**_I’m beautiful, Betty._ **

Betty can’t help it. She snorts, and crouches down to kiss the top of his head. “You are a  _ beautiful _ boy.”

Ell makes a huffing sound, and licks her face.  **_And you are my witch_ ** , he says, somehow with more satisfaction than even Zelda.  **_You called and I came, and I’m staying._ **

Her throat tightens. Betty wraps her arms around his neck and gives him a long hug before getting up to rejoin the others in the dining room. 

Dinner is followed by dessert, something Hilda brings out in a massive crystal bowl and calls a  _ trifle _ , which Betty has only ever seen on  _ Great British Bake Well _ . It’s layered cream, berries, pound cake, and custard, bright yellows and soft whites and berry juice soaking into the pound cake, and the sight of it makes her stomach clench. Alice would  _ bellow  _ at her if she heard Betty had eaten something so fattening. But her mother, she remembers, is ignoring her. Alice hasn’t looked her in the eye in days. 

It’s self-serve. Betty takes a second helping. She wonders if her mother will even notice, if the traces of berry juice on her lips will give her away. She finds she’s not sure she cares. 

Betty’s curfew is still seven o’clock, something that somehow the Spellmans were made aware of before they even arrived. She’s fairly sure this is because of Jughead, though he’s being extraordinarily quiet the whole evening; he spends most of dinner simply watching the Spellmans, barely touching his food, which is  _ truly  _ out of character. It takes Betty nudging his foot with hers under the table for him to put anything in his mouth. Hilda and Zelda don’t seem to be annoyed. If anything, Zelda seems slightly amused. So does Ambrose, who keeps twirling his spoon into the custard left behind on his plate by the trifle and grinning whenever Betty catches his eye.

“We won’t poison you, love,” says Ambrose, the third time Betty prods Jughead under the table. “We promise. That’d go against the long-term plan.”

Jughead scowls, but by the time Ambrose turns away to talk to Sabrina about something, he puts exactly two mouthfuls of vegetable pie onto his fork. When Betty looks next, he’s cleaned his plate, and she shoves the leftovers of her second bowl of trifle at him to finish off. 

Dinner is finished by about five-thirty—obnoxiously early by anyone’s standards, but Betty can’t afford to miss curfew; her palms are sweating at the thought of her mother getting curious and checking her location app to find Betty in  _ Greendale.  _ It seems stupidly reckless to be even one minute late getting home in a circumstance like this. Jughead must have mentioned it to the Spellmans somehow, because they seem completely unsurprised when Betty mentions it to Hilda. “Oh, don’t worry, dear,” Hilda says, and settles more coffee mugs onto the tray she’s setting up. “We’ll have you out of here in time to get home before your curfew, don’t you fret. How much cream do you like in your coffee?” 

They all take turns talking, once they retreat to the living room after dinner. Well, Sabrina, Ambrose, and Hilda do; Jughead and Zelda both watch from opposite ends of the room, Zelda smoking steadily, Jughead sitting with his back ramrod straight like there’s tension he can’t let go of. Hilda asks her questions about Riverdale, about her family. Ambrose tells her about his house arrest, though not why he was arrested; Sabrina talks about Baxter High, about her friends and her boyfriend. “Harvey,” she says, and blushes bright pink. “We haven’t been together super long, but—but he’s great, I really want you to meet him.”

Betty bites her lip. “I mean, I don’t—I would love to, but you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” says Sabrina again, and her eyes crinkle at the corners. “All four of us go to Dr. Cerberus’s on Fridays after school, you should come join us when you get the chance.”

Something, flickering like a candle flame, ignites in her throat. Betty swallows. “Yeah,” she says. “Okay.”

Jughead bumps his foot into hers. It’s hidden by the coffee table and the carpets. Somehow Betty gets the feeling Hilda saw it anyway, because when she looks up again, Hilda’s smiling at her knitting project.

“Elizabeth,” says Zelda, and Betty snaps to attention. “It’s my understanding that you’ve had little to no training in witchcraft.”

“Um.” Betty folds her hands in her lap. Ell lifts his head from the floor, where he’s settled by her feet, and watches Zelda through the legs of the coffee table. “I mean, it’s—everything changed really fast. I haven’t had the chance to start. But I want to—”

“Then you will come here.” Zelda taps ash out into a nearby tray that looks to have been shaped out of a human skull. “Oh, don’t look so stupefied, niece. Of course we will teach you. Hilda and myself. We’ve been discussing it. And—considering the  _ nature  _ of some of your gifts, the—dreamseeing, and such—it would be solely to your advantage to learn from those who share Spellman magic. Your Serpent Prince will tell you that.”

Betty’s ears go hot. Her tongue plasters to the roof of her mouth. “My—”

“She’s not wrong,” says Jughead. He doesn't look at her. “Thomas brought it up too. There are some things only they’ll be able to teach you.”

He doesn’t mention Joaquin. Betty opens her mouth, and then slowly closes it. If Jughead’s not going to mention Lavender, or Toni, or Joaquin de Santos, she’s not going to bring it up, either. “Oh,” says Betty, after a long pause. She looks back at Zelda. “Um—are you—are you sure that that’d be okay?”

“Of course, dear,” says Hilda. “We taught Sabrina, didn’t we, love? And Ambrose had already been to the Academy in London before he came to us, but we’ve kept up with the tutoring over the years of his house arrest, haven’t we, Ambrose?”

“Ah yes,” says Ambrose, and slips about in his chair so he can sprawl sideways across it, throwing his legs over one arm. “Weekly torture sessions. You’ll enjoy it, cousin.”

“Ignore him, he’s a rake and a jailbird.” Zelda rolls her eyes. “It’s settled then. We’ll work on establishing a schedule. I am not a lenient teacher, Elizabeth.” 

**_What a surprise_ ** , says Ell, and puts his head back on Betty’s foot.  **_She means no harm, Betty. I could smell it if she did._ **

Betty takes a breath, and refolds her hands in her lap. She’s still not sure what to make of Satanism, of the Church of Night and its practices, but this—this was what she’d wanted. To learn magic. For Polly. “I’d be happy to. But my mom—” 

“Don’t worry about your mother.” Zelda taps more ash into her tray. “The day I can’t hoodwink one mortal woman is the day I give up magic for good.” 

Her palms sweat. Betty knits her hands together, pinching her nails into her hands, and breathes. 

“Another thing, actually,” says Hilda. She darts a look at Zelda, and then settles her knitting in her lap. “We—that is, Zelda and I—were wondering if—if you might like to have your dad’s old grimoire. To study, before—before starting your lessons.”

Betty blinks. 

“He’d just left the Academy, you see,” says Hilda. She wrings her hands, and then fumbles a ball of yarn out of the basket by her feet. “Just before you were born. And—and he was staying with us, until he found a place to land. He was working with Sabrina’s father on a project, or—or so we’ve been told since. We  _ think  _ it’s why he sought out the Circle, across the river. It was all very secretive. When—when he died, his grimoire was brought back to us by the head of your Circle. Your father,” she adds to Jughead, “I’d imagine,” and Jughead’s eyebrows lift, just a bit, up his forehead. “We—we wondered if you might want it.”

Ell lets out a tremendous sigh against her foot.  **_Grimoires are special_ ** , he says.  **_Every witch has their own. He might have secret spells you could use._ **

“Oh,” says Betty. Her heart knits itself to her sternum, pain squeezing between her lungs. “Um—I don’t—I mean, you all knew him, and—I’m not—”

“Nonsense,” says Zelda. “He was your father.”

“I don’t even know if he knew about me.” Betty shrugs. She hasn’t let herself think about it overmuch. Mortimer Spellman is somehow—separate, from the feelings she has about her family. A distant figure that she can’t process the reality of. Logically, she knows he existed; she  _ knows  _ he was alive, that people knew him, that her mother slept with him (she dances around this concept) but—the idea of him being her  _ father,  _ in the way Zelda seems to see it, like a flesh and blood parent who loved her and who she should love, is something she can’t look at. She still hasn’t thought of him as anything beyond  _ someone my mom cheated with. A sperm donor. Not my dad, but a father, the one who fathered me.  _ “I’m—my mom never told my—never told her husband about him. She never told me, either, so—”

Betty trails off, because Hilda looks on the verge of tears again. Hilda shakes her head. 

“Nonsense.” Her voice is a bit thick. “Nonsense, he would want you to have it. It’s tradition, in our coven at least, to pass down your grimoire to your firstborn as it is, and—well—I’m sure he would have wanted you to have it, love. And I’m  _ sure  _ that if he knew about you, then he would—well, forgive me for saying so, because I know—I know this is all something very new to you, and it’s new to us, too, but remembering Morty—he would be happy to see the young woman you are.”

Betty’s throat closes. She swallows a few times. Ell gets up from the floor, and shoves his way between her knees, resting his heavy jaw on her leg and looking up at her with dark, sad eyes. He doesn’t say anything. Betty smooths her hands over his head, and looks away from Zelda, trying to find the words. “Oh,” she says, finally. She doesn’t know what’s happening in her heart, but it aches. “Okay.”

Next to her, Jughead shifts. “Betty?”

“Um.” Betty stands up, sharply. “Where’s, um, your bathroom?”

“Down the hall,” says Ambrose, before anyone can say anything. “First door to the left after the door to the embalming room.”

“Thank you,” says Betty, and then she bolts.

She’s forgotten her makeup back in the locker room at school, so it’s not like she can fix her face. Being alone helps, at least. Betty washes her face with frigid water, wipes the eyeliner off, the mascara, and looks at her reflection in the mirror. There’s a redness to her eyes that’s grown worse since she came here. A rawness around her mouth. She draws a breath, and holds it. 

_What are you crying for?_ She rubs her hands over her eyes, and balances against the tile wall. The Spellman bathroom is all in shades of minty green, and the faucet looks like something that should no longer feasibly run. _They’re being nice to you. This could be going way worse._ _It’s not like they’re the Blossoms._

She takes another breath, and it shakes, almost like a sob. She’s not sure if it’s relief or fear, but letting it out helps. It’s almost six o’clock. She can keep it together until six o’clock. Until six-fifteen, which is the absolute latest they can stay. She  _ can  _ do that. More than that, she  _ will  _ do that. 

_ These people are my family. _ She looks into her reflection, into green eyes like Alice’s, like Zelda’s.  _ I can do this. _

There’s a rap at the door. “Betty?”

“Yeah, coming.” She snags a hand towel, rubs her face dry. It’s with a deep breath and a smile that she opens the door to Jughead and Ell, crowding in the doorway to the bathroom like they’re here to put out a fire. “I’m okay.”

Jughead looks at her, eyebrows clenching. “You want to get out of here?”

She thinks of it, getting on the bike. Then she shakes her head. “No,” she says. “We have to go in twenty minutes anyway. I want to stay.”

Jughead searches her face. Then he nods, and lets her pass him on the way back to the living room.

.

.

.

The rest of the evening is fairly straightforward. 

Betty’s calm, when she opens the bathroom door. Calmer than he’d expected, considering how fast she’d bolted out of the living room. Her makeup is gone but her eyes are clear when they go back into the living room, and she accepts the calming valerian tea from Hilda Spellman, who looks almost as if she’s been crying herself. 

“I didn’t mean to overwhelm you, dear—”

“It’s okay.” Betty’s smile is wan, but real. “It’s—everything’s been a lot, lately.” 

Ell leans hard into Betty’s leg. In Jughead’s pocket, Razz stirs, and says,  **_That’s one way to put it._ **

“Oh.” Hilda frets. “Oh, of—of course, it would be—here, sit, we don’t have to worry about the grimoire for now—”

“No, I—I want to take it.” Betty takes a breath. “I think I should take it. I’m sorry for running away, I just—it’ll just take some time for me to get used to this, I think.”

“Well, of course,” says Zelda, out of nowhere. “It’s been a very great shock. Hilda, fetch more tea.” 

By the time Betty’s finished  _ both  _ cups of tea, the strain smoothing itself away from her face, it’s time for them to go. He feels like shit for it, but he’s relieved. This is Betty’s family—Betty’s  _ family _ , he tells himself, some horrible, childish part of himself seething with jealousy about it, Betty’s family who, even on a two-hour acquaintance, seems to want her enough to fret about when she’s upset or not, care about her and what she needs—but they’re still Satanists. They’re still Church of Night witches. Halfway decent ones, because unlike the Blossoms, their magic isn’t trying to crush them, and they’re not trying to feed them poison or potions to impact Betty’s will, and they’re even  _ offering her a family grimoire _ which is a major sign of trust, but still: Satanist witches. Witches that come from outside the Circle. There’s still too much bad blood criss-crossing the river for him to be comfortable here. As soon as they’re out of Greendale he’ll relax, and not before. 

Zelda’s been watching him, when she’s not staring at Betty like she’d like to swallow her whole. Zelda, who seems to slide between  _ cousin  _ and  _ niece _ when she refers to Betty, who makes no argument when Hilda, midway through their dessert, says,  _ Oh, you can call me Aunt Hilda, dear, if you want _ , has been watching him the whole evening. So has Ambrose. Sabrina is about the only one he’s not suspicious of, if only because she’s their age; Sabrina, who asks Betty about their school, about classes, about mortal things that somehow bring the evening back to normalcy. Sabrina’s  _ still  _ talking when they have to leave, all six of them plus Ell trailing out of the house like some kind of awkward, fucked-up train. Jughead sticks behind Betty and in front of the aunts, only half-listening to Sabrina coaxing Betty into talking about the River Vixens and the pep rally and the upcoming game against Baxter. (“ _ Please  _ beat our team, the football players at my school are a bunch of misogynist  _ pigs _ —”) Ambrose stays on the porch, but Sabrina, Hilda, and Zelda follow them down into the drive. 

“Boy,” says Zelda, and Jughead stops. It’s automatic. So many years of his dad calling him  _ boy  _ has instilled some kind of Pavlovian response.  _ Hear it and freeze, that’s me _ . “I’d like to speak with you.”

**_Sure,_ ** says Razz in his pocket.  **_Right. That’s not ominous_ ** .

Jughead doesn’t say anything, but he  _ does  _ tap twice against his pocket so Razz knows he agrees. When he looks back at Betty, she’s standing by the bike in the light of the sunset, still talking with Sabrina and Hilda. As he watches, Hilda says “Oh!” and bustles back into the house, clearly jogging like she’s forgotten something. Zelda, imperiously, gestures with one hand. 

“For Satan’s sake, I’m not going to eat you.”

“I’m probably toxic, anyway,” says Jughead, but he takes a few steps forward, so he’s at least midway between the bike and Zelda. “What is it?”

“I presume that next we see our cousin, you will be accompanying her.” 

Jughead hooks his hands into the pockets of his sherpa. “Unless she tells me to stay out of it. Why?”

Zelda folds one arm across her stomach, and studies him. In the fading light, her green eyes look almost gold. “Is your father’s intention to initiate her into the Circle of the Snake?”

He should have figured this would come up. Jughead doesn’t say anything for a moment. He looks to the motorcycle, where Hilda’s bustling back out to press things into Betty’s arms: a tin of what he presumes is tea, another, smaller book. He doesn’t look back at Zelda. “It’s her choice what she wants to do,” he says. “Not the Circle’s. She said she doesn’t want to decide about that until she knows more about both the Circle and the Church of Night, and believe me, Cheryl Blossom’s very intent on getting her involved with the Church.”

“I see.” Zelda rubs her forefinger and thumb together, as if seeking another cigarette. “In that case, I will need to speak with your father.” 

**_Uh oh,_ ** says Razz. 

Jughead’s throat dries out. “Uh—he’s not—I mean, he’s pretty busy—”

“I don’t care if he’s busy,” says Zelda. “Nor do I particularly care if it’s convenient. A half-witch,  _ my cousin, _ has been left unprotected on  _ his  _ side of the river for the vast majority of her life, left behind with  _ mortals,  _ and we  _ will  _ be making regular trips to see her in order to ensure she is properly protected. You  _ will  _ inform your father that regardless of his availability he  _ will  _ make time to see me. Tomorrow morning, ten o’clock. Is that clear?”

It’s a miracle or a disaster if FP gets out of bed before three in the afternoon. “I don’t know if—”

“Tomorrow morning,” says Zelda again. “Ten o’clock. I will be waiting at the door to that—awful little pub the Circle calls home. And if your father is not there to meet me, then I will go dig him up wherever he’s hiding and speak with him by force.  _ Is that clear? _ "

**_I’d love to see that,_ ** says Razz. 

“I’ll tell him,” Jughead says. “But I can’t promise he’ll show up.”

“Then those are his consequences to reap,” says Zelda, and extracts a cigarette case from her pocket, snapping the silver case open to extract yet another nicotine stick. She lights it with a flame from the tip of her thumb. “And before you get any ideas about attending—if I find one  _ shred  _ of evidence you have come anywhere  _ near  _ this meeting, boy, I will cut your ears off and feed them to the hyena.”

Jughead opens his mouth, and shuts it again. “I’m the one who—”

“You’ve done an admirable job,” says Zelda abruptly. She slots her newly lit cigarette into the holder, and shifts her grip on it. “You informed us of her existence, and have ensured that she obtained a familiar. You have done your work, and we will owe you for it until our dying days, but Elizabeth is a Spellman. She is our family, and our responsibility. We will protect her now.”

Something in his throat rips, slowly, in half. He swallows, but there’s a knot left behind, a scar. He clears his throat, and then jams his fists deeper into his pockets. Razz says,  **_Jughead, breathe_ ** , and he realizes his lungs are aching. Jughead inhales, exhales. 

“I meant what I said,” he says, finally. “It’s her choice. Force her into anything, and I’ll end it.”

Zelda blows smoke. “Understood.” The corner of her mouth tips up. “We appreciate what you’ve done for us, Serpent Prince.”

Jughead grunts, and turns away. 

Betty sliding in behind him on the motorcycle is the same raw, electric thrill it was when he first saw her coming down the steps of the school, in her shell-pink dress and her hair down, biting her lower lip like— _ like she saw something worth looking at _ , something in him hisses, and he slaps it away as he pulls his gloves on. A small, thick notebook—Mortimer’s grimoire, it must be—and the second book Hilda had pressed on Betty—“one of the dream-sight books,” Hilda says, as Betty had stowed it beneath the seat, “to help with your nightmares, love—” squat like a time bomb inside the Circle-spelled bike. Sabrina stands too close, within range of the heat from the engine; she smiles at them both.

“I’m really glad you came,” she says to Betty. Then, to his surprise, she looks at him. “Thank you for bringing my cousin.”

“Uh, sure.” 

Betty tucks her arms around his waist, and locks her hands against his stomach. Ell, beside the bike, opens his mouth to pant. “Go on,” Betty says, and Ell licks her knee before darting off into the woods, vanishing into the dimming light. Then Betty looks at Sabrina. “We’ll come back.”

“Good.” Sabrina backs up. “And text me, okay?”

“Yeah.” Betty adjusts, tucks her chin against his shoulder again. “Definitely.”

“And you should come too, Jughead,” Sabrina says. “When Betty comes to meet my friends. You should both come.”

Betty, as if she can hear his response before he speaks it, presses her palm against his stomach in a warning. 

“Yeah,” Jughead says after a moment. “Sure.” 

Sabrina beams at them. 

The ride back to Riverdale is quiet. By the time they cross the bridge, glide along Riverside to Main Street and then from there into the winding suburbia that hides Elm Street away from all and sundry, the sun is fully set. It’s almost seven, and the cool sharp air cuts against his cheeks, drawing moisture from the corners of his eyes. Driving in the dark isn’t something he’s as practiced at, but at the same time, the bike is even more spelled than the Whyte Wyrm; he’s not sure he could crash this thing even if he intentionally hit the throttle and aimed for a brick wall.

Alice, he knows, will murder him if he brings Betty back home on the back of a Serpent motorcycle, so he coasts to a stop just beyond Elm Street, and kills the engine. For a moment, he thinks Betty sighs; her arms tighten close around his waist, and she shifts, resting her nose to his shoulder instead of her chin, squeezing tighter like she doesn’t want to let go. The weight of her against his back is somehow so much more real when they’re not driving, when he’s not focusing on the road and the feel of the bike; she’s warm, the press of her and the closeness making his head spin and his heart ache. That stupid scar in his throat begins to throb again. 

“Sorry,” Betty says after a moment, and then she eases back, away from him, sliding off the bike. She brushes her skirt down. There’s a fleck of oil on the edge, and she frowns at it, but other than that there’s no other reaction as she takes the helmet off and offers it back to him. “You need this for the drive home, right?”

He takes it without a word, and gets off the bike to open up the seat compartment. In his pocket, Razz unfurls. (She doesn’t like the bike, and always curls into the tightest possible ball she can, tucking her ears and sensitive nose away from the smell and roar of the road.) 

**_Jug,_ ** she says, softly.  **_What is it?_ **

He doesn’t respond. He watches Betty drag her backpack out of the compartment, and then shove the Spellman books into her bag. 

“Hey,” Betty says. She reaches out and touches the tips of her fingers to his sleeve. “Thank you for coming with me, Jug. I know it made you really uncomfortable to be there.” 

He rolls his neck, rubbing at the back of his shoulder. “Going to dinner with Satanists? Definitely on my bucketlist.” 

Betty snorts. Still—he’s not sure. There’s something in her face that he wants to chase, a softness that he doesn’t recognize. She says, “You still came. I don’t think I’d have been able to manage it without you there.” 

Jughead doesn’t know what to say. It’s always in these moments that he loses track of thoughts, and just  _ feels _ , a sudden, rolling wave of emotion that comes rushing in to knock his legs out from under him. How much he’s always wanted to be close to her like this. He pictures, for a moment, leaning down to kiss her. He’s never let himself picture it before, what it would mean. He knew if he started he’d not be able to stop. In the moment, though, with her lingering, and looking at him in a way she hasn’t before, he can’t help it. He thinks of it, or lets himself think of it, just for a second. Just for a breath. She’d  _ never  _ want that from him, he knows that, but he pictures it. Then he pushes it away again, and says, “Of course.”

Betty lets out a breath. She steps forward, and then her arms are around him again, and he gives in to resting his nose and mouth to the top of her head, breathing in her hair and letting himself just exist in this moment, with her arms arching up his back so her nails hook into his jacket, and he can feel her breath tickle against his collar. She mumbles something he can’t make out, and squeezes tighter for a moment. Then, slowly, she retreats, and says, “I should, um. Get inside before seven o’clock hits.”

“And I need to take this back to my dad.” Jughead turns away before she can make something out in his face, whatever expression is there. He swings one leg over the bike. “I have to talk to him about something.”

“What about?”

“Zelda wants to meet with him.”

“Oh.” Betty’s lashes flicker. “Um—so will you stay with your dad tonight, or—”

“Doubtful.” He adjusts his gloves. “But it might take a while, so—”

“Okay.” She heaves her backpack over her shoulder. “Just—text me before you come back so I can lock the door, okay?”

“Yeah.”

Betty seems to be at war with herself, just for a second. Then she reaches out, puts her hand to his forearm. The brush of lips on his cheek is here and then gone, like the touch of a moth. She’s pulled back before he can do anything, before his control shreds itself and he pulls her close to kiss her mouth. There’s color in her cheeks when she steps away. 

“Drive safe,” she says, and then she turns and walks along the street. Jughead can’t move; his lungs are barely working as he watches her walk away, a sliver of color in the dark around them. She looks back over her shoulder at the intersection with Elm, lifts her hand in the smallest wave, and then—unbearably—she’s gone.

**_I swear to every spirit I’ve ever known_ ** , Razz says, with absolute disgust,  **_if I have to put up with this until you reach your first century, I will take your chickenshit head off myself._ **

“Shut up,” he says, and his cheeks burn as he locks the helmet onto his head. “Keep your nose out, Razz.”

**_Do you realize how absolutely insufferable it is to deal with this?_ ** Razz sighs.  **_I love you and will love you until my dying day, child of mine, but you are being absurd._ **

“Razz, don’t.”

**_I’ll stop_ ** , she says.  **_But you know my thoughts on this._ **

“Yeah.” He hits the throttle. “And you know mine.”

She goes quiet, then. He’s not sure if it’s because of his bad mood, or the smell of the bike.

Jughead’s not stupid. He never thought it’d exactly be  _ easy _ , bringing Betty to Greendale, meeting her family and watching them fall in love with her. He might have slipped up back in the Lodge penthouse, telling her what he had—that people would be stupid to leave her behind—but he’d been right. The Spellmans were already the sort of family who would never be happy to share; now that they’ve met her, they’re just as besotted as he knew they would be. And she deserves that, he thinks, as he turns the blinker on and waits at a red light near the Sheriff’s station. Betty deserves a family that loves her without any kind of repercussions. She deserves the kind of family that will love her and care for her and recognize that she’s amazing, instead of the family she has: Hal, who doesn’t know her; Alice, who tries to control her; even Polly, who abandoned her without a word. She deserves to be loved by people who see her as a person and not as an accessory, and even though the Spellmans are Satanists, even though he doesn’t trust them, he thinks she’s found that in them. 

He thinks of Gladys, leaving the trailer with JB while he’s in school so he couldn’t stop her from taking away his little sister. He thinks of FP, the days and nights and days and nights of getting his father home from the Wyrm, of putting him in the fold-out and sitting up all night to make sure his dad doesn’t choke on his own vomit in his sleep. Pressure builds up his throat like a shaken soda bottle. He thinks of the fighting before his mother left, the screaming when they’d first moved to the trailer, the arguments.  _ You’ve already ruined one of our children with your shit, FP, I won’t let you ruin the other.  _ He thinks about how FP hadn’t even been awake when Jughead had walked out, a note left behind on the shitty dining table and everything he cared about in a bag on his back, Razz tucked into his jacket pocket like a secret. He thinks of FP passed out on the floor, and his shaking middle-schooler fingers taking the ring from the middle finger of FP’s right hand. 

A car behind him honks. Jughead curses, and hits the throttle too hard, shooting forward into the intersection in a way that almost shakes him out of his seat. Around his neck, the chain with the serpent ring feels cold, drawing the warmth out of his skin as if it’s made of ice. 

_ You want the Circle, but not the Serpents. You think you get to be that picky, boy? _

The tear in his throat splits wider. He swallows it back as above him, clouds gather into a storm. 

Sleet is coming down hard when he finally pulls into Sunnyside Trailer Park, past the manager’s office and down the wide strip between one row of trailers and another. The grass is dying and flecked with ice when he turns, and parks the motorcycle beside his dad’s trailer. There’s a light on in the trailer window. Serpents are peering at him even through the rain. He can feel their eyes on his back as he swings off the bike, takes his gloves off and chucks them with too much force into the compartment beneath the seat. Razz doesn’t speak. Jughead touches his collar, making sure the ring is beneath his shirt, hidden away from anyone who might see, before he clambers the stairs to the trailer door and knocks with one hand. 

“Dad,” he says, and blinks the sleet away. “It’s me. I need to talk to you.”

There’s a beat, a moment, of pure silence. It feels like even the sleet has stopped, like the icy water trickling down the back of his neck is his imagination. Then the door rattles, and FP yanks it open. He looks—slightly better than usual, though not by much. His eyes aren’t as red, and he’s shaved once in the past week. That doesn’t change the fact that there’s a beer can in his hand, and—Jughead tightens his fists in his pockets—that there’s a look in his eyes that Jughead doesn’t recognize. It’s broiling. 

“What a coincidence,” says FP. His voice is spun tight. “Cause I just had a very interesting conversation with Alice Cooper.”

Blood drains from Jughead’s head. His ears ring. In his pocket, Razz hisses, and says,  **_Jug._ **

“Come in, boy,” says FP. “Seems like we got a lot to talk about.” 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My mysterious benefactor has blessed us again with character boards!!! We got one coming for Jug, Veronica, and Cheryl on top of this GORGEOUS BETTY PRINT. *I have permission to post this from the creator. I DID NOT make it myself.


	31. Blood's Own Wickedness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FP and Jughead clash. Betty makes a discovery Alice wishes she wouldn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW FOR: 
> 
> \--mentions of conversion camps  
> \--mentions of child abuse  
> \--mentions of teen pregnancy / implications of abuse  
> \--mentions of alcoholism  
> \--alcohol  
> \--shouting between parent and child  
> \--a parent hits a wall  
> \--a panic attack
> 
> Uhhhhh Jughead doesn't have a nice time this chapter, please be careful.

Alice isn’t at home when Betty walks in the door. Her car is gone; her keys are gone; her purse is missing from the countertop where she leaves it. The tension in Betty’s stomach unwinds when she goes down to the basement office, _just_ to be sure, and finds the computer dark and the dummy layouts on her mother’s corkboard half-finished. _Arson Investigation into Twilight Drive-In Ongoing_ is apparently the headline for next Monday, the way it has been at least once a week for the last three weeks. Aside from Jason’s murder, it’s the biggest thing to happen to Riverdale since before she was born, probably. She’s not sure how long _real_ arson investigations last, but she’s _pretty_ sure that if the witch hunter had found anything, Mariah Solomon would have come after her or Jughead by now. Though apparently—she frowns at the layout—there are more witch hunters in town than she’d known about, which is something she needs to talk to him about. 

Hunters. Hunters in town because of her, but also because Riverdale is _their_ place, the base for the Order of the Innocents to watch over Greendale, and ensure that all witches would be put to death by blade or fire or the rope. Betty unpins the headline from the board, and smooths her fingers over the paper. She could tear it up, she supposes. Alice would know exactly who did it, exactly the way Alice always knew which of them had stolen the last apple out of the bowl when they were little, Betty or Polly. (Usually Betty, though at least when they were in elementary school, Polly would try to cover for her.) Instead, she sets it on her mom’s desk, and shakes the mouse to wake the home laptop up from sleep, pulling up an incognito window and typing _Mariah Solomon arson investigator Portland Maine_ into Sleuther. 

Arson investigators come out of the Maine Office of State Fire Marshals, per what Sleuther tells her. Which kind of confirms what she and Jughead already knew; that Mariah Solomon, who Sheriff Keller had described as coming from the Portland Fire Department, was nothing more than a cover story. She still uses her mom’s log-in to IntelForU, the private investigator site for background checks, just to be sure. There’s no record of anyone named Mariah Solomon in the Portland area that matches up her supposed age and looks. Betty takes a breath and lets it out, leaning back in her chair. She should have looked this up weeks ago, but it’d seemed so basic, the knowledge that this woman was a witch hunter and she wasn’t who she said she was. It seems so basic that she hadn’t considered it in need of verification. 

_Trust but verify_ . She should have remembered that from her summer job. _Trust your instincts, trust the information you’re given, but don’t run off on a supposition. Make sure it’s right before you jump in head first._

Mapping out who is and isn’t a hunter might be positive, though she's not exactly sure _how_ she could. If Riverdale is so full of witch hunters, then making sure who is and isn’t dangerous, who could or couldn’t be a threat to her, is the right choice. Especially with what she’d felt, during the séance. What she’d heard from Jason. The stories she’s been told about witches dying if they’re left alone. She flexes her hands, trying to keep her fingers from shaking. Witch hunters must stick together like witches themselves do. After all, nobody really believes either of them exist anymore. 

_So if you find one, there are probably others in the immediate vicinity._

The Sheriff’s Department was suspect. Something Hilda had said made it sound like _all_ the deputies were hunters, but certainly the Sheriff himself was. And if the Sheriff’s Department is full of hunters, then it’s possible most of Riverdale’s administration is too. Her pulse picks up at the thought of that. Maybe Weatherbee? But—no, Jughead would have warned her about Weatherbee. Probably Jughead's parents wouldn't have let him _near_ Riverdale High if Weatherbee had anything to do with it. Or any of the teachers. Same with the Blossoms. So—probably no one at school. Mayor McCoy had been giving her funny looks at Jason’s memorial, though who knew if that was because of witchcraft or because of what happened at the Twilight. Somehow she doesn’t think that Josie has anything to do with it—Josie is way, way too focused on her musical career to have anything to do with witch hunting—but if Mayor McCoy doesn’t know about witches, she at least knows about _something_ . The way Hilda had talked about it, it seemed like Mayor McCoy was— _is—_ making deals with witches.

 _So, Mayor McCoy knows._

And Kevin—

 _No. Kevin can’t know. He’d have said something._ He doesn’t know she’s a witch, that Jughead is a witch, or Veronica, but—he’d at least mention it to her, as like a joke. _Can you believe my dad thinks witches are real?_ He’d think it’s funny, she’s pretty sure. That it was wacky, the way his dad going back to church after years of shoddy attendance is funny. Not—not as serious as it is. 

Her brain keeps churning. Betty pushes the thought away, the thought and the follow through to its conclusion, that if Kevin doesn’t know, then he does, and if he does, then he might be a hunter. She takes a breath, and lets it out. 

Her phone buzzes. 

✨Sabrina✨: _Aunt Hilda wants to know if you got home safe!_

She takes another breath. In, out. 

Betty: _I’m home!! Thank you again for the dinner. And please thank Hilda and Zelda for me!_

✨Sabrina✨: _Of course!!! You’re stuck with us now Betty_ 🤪 

✨Sabrina✨: _Let me know if you're coming to Greendale next Friday!! I want you to meet Roz and Susie and Harvey_

Her heart aches. Betty chucks her phone onto the desktop, and goes back to the computer. 

The Sheriff's Department. Maybe the Mayor's office. Thomas had said something about the Sisters of—something—when she’d told him about Mariah Solomon. She can’t remember. Sisters of Quaint Magnitude. Something like that. The base for the Order. At least for the area. Betty checks the time—7:13, and her mom’s still not home; she could have stayed at the Spellmans longer—and types, _sisters of quaint magnitude riverdale_ into the search bar. 

It takes a moment for the results to come up. The algorithm at the top of the screen reads, _Did you mean: Sisters of Quiet Mercy?_ Betty frowns—beneath the first result, the homepage for the Sisters of Quiet Mercy, there are only a few other things that have popped up. One is an article from 1996 about a violinist who won some big award who came from the Sisters of Quiet Mercy— _orphanage_ , _foster home, nunnery_. There’s a website that has a history of the place, from before Riverdale began. She opens that in another tab. The last is an article about conversion camps, which Betty isn’t quite sure is relevant. When she clicks on the home page, a soft, psalm-like song begins to play out of the computer speakers. 

_Sisters of Quiet Mercy. A home for troubled youths, where disenfranchised teens will learn such virtues as discipline and respect, enjoying lives of quiet reflection and servitude._

Long-nailed fingers claw up her spine. She wishes Ell were here, and not out in the woods, doing whatever it is he’s doing. Betty wets her lips. She looks back over her shoulder. There’s been no sound from the rest of the house, nothing from the garage, but still; there are eyes on the back of her neck. _A hunter from the Sisters of Quiet Mercy_ . She clicks on _Philosophy_.

_The Sisters of Quiet Mercy, founded April 3, 1948, has always operated on the principles of reviving the spirit of the Catholic faith amongst populations beset with rural and industrial concerns, in which devotion to the Sacred Heart and to Gospel values allow true spiritual, cultural, and economic regeneration. We fulfill our task in healing the world by seeking true understanding of its character and immersing ourselves in the lives of those most abandoned by society, in search for an integral transformation of society to safeguard human dignity, foster harmony, and respond to calls of justice._

She has to read through it three times, and even then, she’s not sure the philosophy makes any sense. _Spiritual, cultural, and economic regeneration? Seeking true understanding of its character? Safeguarding human dignity?_ How? Something about it feels off just on the surface, and she’s not even sure it has anything to do with the fact that they have hunters among them. It feels—it feels as though she’s looking into her mirror, and the reflection doesn’t match. Something off, but on the far side of a piece of glass she can’t put her hand through. A reflection of something broken on the far side. 

Betty clicks on _Programs_. It takes a moment for the page to load. 

_All post-novitiates are certified as therapists specializing in the unique and occasionally contradictory issues that impact our children. Resting on the edge of Fox Forest State Park, the Sisters of Quiet Mercy provides 24/7 care to teens between the ages of eleven and eighteen who are recovering from such traumas as teen pregnancy; drug or alcohol consumption; sexual, physical, emotional, or psychological abuse; and cult deprogramming. Through disciplined schedules, daily individual and group therapy, and periods of quiet reflection, teens may once again recover and return to a path which is socially, psychologically, and spiritually healthy._

Her tongue dries up.

24/7 care. To teens. Teens who are abused. _Cult deprogramming._ Pregnant. _Polly is pregnant. Polly is pregnant, and she’s sick. Polly is sick, and she’s gone. Polly is gone and they won’t say where she is, and she’s pregnant, and this place—_

Her phone trills. 

Betty slams the laptop shut so fast that she thinks, for a second, she’s shattered the screen. When she opens it again, the screen is fine; she closes out of her incognito search, and puts her mother’s laptop back on the table. Her hand closes tight around her phone. 

Unknown number: _This is Toni._

Unknown number: _Don’t freak out, I asked Jughead for your number a few days ago_

Unknown number: _I’m picking you up tomorrow to take you to Auntie’s_

Unknown number: _Be at Sunnyside by noon_

Unknown number: _And don’t be late_

Betty swallows. 

Betty: _Okay._

Betty: _Thank you for this. I know it’s probably not how you want to spend a Saturday._

Unknown number: _whatever_

Unknown number: _You owe me for this, that’s all_

Unknown number: _and let Jughead know we finally got a way for him to repay us for everything_

She takes a breath. Two. Then—slowly—Betty stands, and leaves the basement office to go shower. If she screams into a pillow afterwards, then that’s no one’s business but her own.

It’s almost nine o’clock when she finally hears the garage door open, the rattle of it vibrating the four legs of her bed and shuddering up into her mattress. Even when she hears footsteps downstairs, her mother on the phone with—someone—her dad maybe, Betty’s not sure, but it _sounds_ like it might be her dad from how Alice is snapping—Betty doesn’t put her computer down. Usually, she thinks, her first instinct would be to confront Alice about Polly, about the Sisters of Quiet Mercy. But she’s not sure yet, and the last thing she needs, especially now, is to pick a fight with her mother when she has no knowledge if her weapon is loaded or not. 

_I need better information_ , she thinks. Then: _I need to know more than I do_ . There are hunters here in Riverdale, and her sister was in love with a Blossom witch. Maybe—her stomach turns—maybe the reason Polly is at the Sisters of Quiet Mercy now, _if_ she is, has everything to do with Jason, and Jason’s baby.

 _If they've hurt her I'll kill_ _them_ , she thinks, and it seeps into her bones, into her marrow, like cool, thick oil. It hurts the way a tetanus shot hurts, deep in the core of herself. _If they've touched my sister, I'll kill them. I don't even care._ _If they're hunters and they've touched her, I will rip them into pieces._

The water bottle on her bedside table shakes, and falls. 

There’s a knock at her door. Betty jerks, and stares at her mother. Alice is in work clothes, but she’s kicked her high heels off; her slacks pool around her feet like she’s wearing someone else’s uniform. Alice does not react to Betty’s shock. If anything, she simply purses her lips, as if to say, _What are you surprised about?_ “Elizabeth.”

“Mom,” says Betty, after a long, suspended moment. Words claw up her throat. _Did you give Polly to the Sisters? Do you know?_ “How was your day?”

“Fine.” Alice eyes Betty’s backpack, where it’s leaned up against her bedside table. She wets her lips. “Have you spoken to _that boy_ today?”

Betty relaxes, ever so slightly. If Alice is asking, she doesn’t know for sure that Betty's seen Jughead, or slipped out of town. Betty swallows, and keeps her voice calm. “If you mean _Jughead_ , then yeah. Why?”

“No reason.” Alice presses her lips together. “Sleep well, dear.”

She’s gone before Betty can say anything else. Betty looks at the posters on her wall, the neon _Love_ hanging above her desk, and then out the window, where Archie’s curtains are still drawn sharply shut. 

“What,” she says, “the fuck was that.” 

No one is around to answer. 

.

.

.

“Sit,” says FP.

Jughead doesn’t sit. Jughead stands, and keeps his hands in his pockets. His palms are slick with sweat, and his heart is rabbiting; there’s a steady drone in his ears that must be his heartbeat, but it’s fading in and out, the way a car motor will when someone doesn’t shift at the right time and the RPMs go through the roof and down again. A memory of his father trying to teach him how to drive the truck—a stick shift, old, early nineties, beat up and with one headlight missing—flashes into his brain. _Shift to first gear to start the car. You’ll have to shift up every time your RPMs hit twenty-five-hundred or higher—yeah, there you go, boy, slowly ease off on the clutch and—_

Jughead shakes it out of his head. 

“I said _sit_ , boy,” says FP, and Jughead sits, as if he’s a puppet with cut strings. His mouth is dry, and sticky, somehow at once. FP puts his beer can on the kitchen counter. The trailer is a wreck; there are clothes everywhere, it reeks of BO and puke, there’s at least three McDonald’s bags on the table of half-eaten food, and flies circle above the single lamp that’s been lit in the corner. If he looks down the hall, he can see his father’s bed in the single bedroom the trailer has to offer. There are no sheets, and no blankets. The only cover is the mattress protector. There don’t seem to be pillows. At least, none that he can see. 

**_Jughead_ ** . Razz is curled into a tight, spiky ball in his pocket, hidden away against his chest. **_Why would he have been talking to Betty’s mother?_ **

He doesn’t know. It's already been too much today. He's not sure he _wants_ to know. He keeps his mouth shut, lips folded tight into a frown. Jughead digs his nails into his kneecaps. 

“You want to explain to me why you lied to me?” It’s not FP, his dad, who’s asking. It’s FP, the Serpent King. Jughead wipes sweat off his palms on his jeans, and meets his father’s stare. The Serpent King is a different animal than his father. He’s still not sure how to handle the Serpent King. “Why I had to hear about your trip to the sheriff’s office from _Alice Cooper_?”

Jughead bites the inside of his cheek. _Shit._ “Mr. Andrews came and got me. It was fine.” 

“You think I didn’t need to know?” FP’s voice gets lower, rougher. Jughead’s never heard him sound like this. “You think that you can get arrested and interrogated by a bunch of _hunters_ and you don’t _tell me that shit,_ boy?” 

“It was just the Sheriff—” 

FP slams his fist to the wall of the trailer. The beer can in his hand erupts, liquid spurting like arterial spray, hitting the lamp and the floor and the cushions of the couch. Jughead can’t help it. He jumps, and hitches his shoulders up around his ears, staring at the fist, the crumpled can. FP drops the can onto the ground, flexes his hand and shakes drops of beer off his fingers. In his pocket, Razz hisses. "It's never _just_ the Sheriff!"

Jughead takes a breath. “Dad—”

“I shouldn’t have to fucking hear that my son— _my son—_ ” FP’s voice turns to a roar “—was in the _fucking sheriff’s office and he didn’t tell me!_ ” 

“Because everything was _fine_ ,” Jughead says. His voice isn’t shaking. He can’t let it shake. He sits there with his nails digging into his jeans and Razz quivering with rage and fear in his pocket and speaks as levelly as he can, knowing his father won’t hear. “I got out okay and I’ve been talking to that witch lawyer from Greendale, Daniel Webster, he helped, everything’s fine now, Dad—” 

“Since when have you started to lie to me, boy?” FP is pacing, back and forth, back and forth. “You were in the belly of the beast and you don’t tell me, your _half-witch_ is half- _Cooper_ and you forget to mention it—”

 _Fuck._ “I didn’t think it mattered—” 

“Do you know who her mother is? Her _father_ ?” FP spits it. “The pair of them would skin us all alive in that paper of ours and there’d be a witch hunt like you couldn’t even _comprehend—_ ”

“Betty is _nothing_ like her parents, this is why I didn’t tell you, she’s _not like that—_ ”

“She’s already got you arrested by hunters—”

“That wasn’t her fault, Dad, _listen to me—_ ” 

“—put the whole of the Circle in danger with this _bullshit—_ ” 

“Jesus, Dad—”

 **_He’s drunk, Jughead,_ ** Razz says, and maybe she’s right, but FP’s words are burrowing under his skin like maggots, like the eggs flies leave behind in a corpse, hatching into large, vicious worms that tear at his insides, ripping at his heart. **_He’s drunk and angry, just get out of here—_ **

“This is why I wanted you pulled from that school,” says FP, and the temperature in the trailer drops. Jughead exhales, and a cloud appears in front of his mouth. Icy panic claws at the interior of his ribs. “You forget why we stay away from mortals—”

“ _You’re_ the one who wanted me to go to mortal school in the first place, it's not fair—”

“And now I know why your mother was right, you should never have been left there as long as you were, it was too much exposure, you _never_ would have been on Keller’s radar if not for this, or _her—_ ” 

“That has nothing to do with this, Dad—” 

“You have _no clue_ what you’re doing, boy—”

“No,” Jughead snarls, and then he’s up on his feet, he can’t help it, his heartbeat is pounding in his ears and Razz’s voice, trying to calm, trying to soothe, is too far away, much, much too far— “No, that’s _you_ , Dad—” 

“The hell did you just say to me?”

“I,” says Jughead, and then he looks at the TV on its tiny stool, the beer cans, the wreck of this place, buried under FP’s addiction. He steels himself. There is too far, with his father. He has just gone over the line. There is no turning back. “ _You’re_ the one who has no clue you’re doing. That’s why you want me to come to the Circle, isn’t it? Because the barrier between Greendale and Riverdale is rotting and you can’t fix it by yourself? You need the next Serpent King to do it for you?”

FP raises a hand, pointing, scarlet around the throat. “I don’t want to hear that from you, boy, not when you’re the one bringing in hunters from the Sisters of Quiet Mercy into Riverdale, getting _caught_ , you could have been _killed—_ ” 

“I don’t _want_ to be the Serpent King,” Jughead snaps, and under his collar, the ring turns frosty. “I _never_ wanted that—”

Something, some dark cloud, darts over FP’s face. “We don’t get to _choose_ , boy—”

“ _You’re_ the one who can’t protect the Circle,” Jughead says, and keeps his fists clenched at his sides. “ _You’re_ the one who let Jason get killed on your watch, this is _our town_ , that’s always what you said to me, and a hunter kills a Blossom in _our town_ and you do nothing about it—”

“Not our business what—” 

“Betty’s a half-witch and _you should have known about her_ , her father was _in the Serpents_ when he was killed and Alice Cooper took off, she didn’t know what she was until last month and it was like that for her because of you, she was alone and thought she was crazy her whole life _because of you—_ ”

“Jughead—” 

“We called you,” Jughead says. His throat closes. “Mr. Andrews called you when I was in the Sheriff’s Office and _you_ didn’t pick up, _you’re_ the one who didn’t come, I didn’t _lie to you_ , you just didn’t care enough to check your fucking _phone—_ ”

“Boy, don’t you talk to me like that—”

“ _YOU’RE THE ONE WHO DROVE MOM AND JELLYBEAN AWAY!_ ” he shouts, and it rips at his throat, the truth of it, tearing out of him like a living blade. “ _THEY’RE GONE BECAUSE OF YOU, OUR FAMILY IS BROKEN BECAUSE OF YOU, SO DON’T TELL ME HOW I SHOULD FUCKING TALK TO YOU_!” 

The silence drops dead between them, heavy as a body. FP’s mouth is open. Something leaches through the anger in his eyes. Pain. Sadness. FP wets his lower lip, lifts a hand. “Jughead,” he says, and his voice cracks. “Jug—”

Jughead can’t help it. He backs away. “Don’t,” he says. His voice cracks too. “Dad, don’t. Don’t make it worse.” 

FP’s eyes go glassy. “Jughead—”

“I can’t be here,” Jughead says, because his eyes are blurring, burning; he can’t see. “I can’t—”

“Jug—”

Jughead bolts out the door, and runs. He does not look back, even when his father calls after him. He runs past the trailers, slipping and sliding on snow and sleet, until he hits the edge of the forest, and when he plunges between the trees, making for the Sweetwater, he hears one of the trailer park dogs howling in the distance.

.

.

. 

It’s twenty minutes past midnight when the closet door opens. 

Betty’s been lying awake for two hours. She hadn’t had the energy to sleep, even; not without knowing Jughead is back safe, not daring to look at Mortimer’s grimoire in the Cooper house. The backpack where she’s keeping the spellbooks is shoved deep under her bed. She’s left the curtains open, for once; Ell, who’d turned up about an hour after her mother came home and decided to immediately pass out, is laying on her floor, clearly irritated with how often she’s been rolling over and finding new positions to rest. She doesn’t blame him. He’s been snoring for the last hour. It’s _Betty_ who can’t sleep. Betty is the one who is lying awake, thinking of the Spellmans, of hunters, of questions she needs to ask. Betty is the one lying in her bed thinking of the Sisters of Quiet Mercy, and the idea of her sister being trapped in that place, surrounded by hunters with the baby of a witch in her belly. 

_You don't know she's_ _there_. She has to keep thinking it, rethinking it, reiterating it to herself. _You have no idea she's there. Not for sure._

But the Sisters of Quiet Mercy are a base for the Order of Innocents. For witch hunters. And if Polly _is_ there, and Polly _is_ pregnant with Jason's baby, then—

She swallows it back again.

It's not good for her sanity, that she's thinking in circles. It means, though, that she’s awake to hear it, feel the slight shift in the air when the transposition door connects. There’s a clattering sound from the interior of her closet. Then—slowly—the doorknob turns. Jughead slips out from her closet on silent feet, not looking at her bed. His hair is soaked. So is his hat. She can hear drops of water hitting her carpet. When Betty sits up, he freezes, and turns his face away. 

“Sorry.” He clears his throat. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I didn’t want to go to sleep until you got back, I think I found something out about Polly.” She turns on her bedside lamp. His feet are muddy. There’s streaks of dirt on her carpet, and when he takes off his jacket, a clump of slushy snow falls off the collar and hits the floor. Leaves are stuck to his shoes. “Jug, were you in Fox Forest?”

“Yeah.” He rubs at his nose. “I needed to think.”

She looks at the mud on his feet, and then at his hands. They’re chapped red from the wind and cold. Ell’s awake, blinking slowly with his head resting between his paws. He says, **_Witchboy smells like the river_ **. 

The Sweetwater River is at least a thirty minute walk from Sunnyside Trailer Park. Walking from the South Side to her neighborhood is at least three times that time. If he’s been out in the snow all this time, he must be freezing. Betty wets her lips, and then pushes her blankets back, slips out of bed and draws one of her throw blankets off the end of her bed. When she comes closer, Jughead tucks his chin, and wraps his arms around himself. His clothes are soaking wet. Betty tucks the blanket around him, tugging it so it settles properly around his shoulders. This close, he smells of the woods, and like cigarette smoke. Not like he’s been smoking, but like he’s been standing somewhere someone else has a cigarette lit. Slowly, he lifts his hands, and pulls the edges of the blanket closer to himself. His fingers are shaking. 

“Jug?” 

Jughead doesn’t say anything. He sinks onto the windowseat, and yanks his hat off, tossing it on top of his jacket where it rests along the back of her desk chair. Betty looks at Ell, and then at Razz—Razz, who’s circling around Jughead’s muddy boots with anxious little huffing sounds—before letting out a breath and heading for the bathroom, snagging a towel for his hair and turning the shower on as hot as she can. Let her mom wonder why she’s taking two showers in a night. Jughead’s frozen, and he’s not going to talk, not yet. Maybe once he thaws, he’ll feel safer. 

The mud’s off the carpet by the time she comes back into her room. Jughead must have witched it away. Betty takes a breath, and then comes close to him, standing so that her knees bump up against his. “Jug,” she says, but he doesn’t react; he pulls the blanket tighter around himself. “Do you want to shower?”

After a moment, he lifts his head. His lashes have frost on them. “I’m okay.” 

“Jughead,” she says again. He doesn’t react. His hair falls forward in front of his eyes. Betty rubs her arms, and then cups one hand over his shoulder. The tension in his back is like iron. What she's found out can wait. “What happened?”

He doesn’t shrug her off. It takes him a long moment, but he lifts his head, and wets his lips. His eyes are red, like he’s been crying. Betty can’t help it. She lifts her hand to hook her nails into the cold, wet hair at the nape of his neck, trying to breathe. Jughead looks _shattered_. Beyond any kind of vulnerability she’s ever seen in him. Something raw and uncovered, the kind of vulnerability she thinks a crab must feel, when its carapace is cracked. The towel slips out of her suddenly limp hand. “Juggie, what happened?” she says again, and Jughead shakes his head, shutting his eyes and leaning forward until the top of his head brushes against her chest. He rests his hands to her waist, and then—slowly, creepingly—he slides his hands up her back, drawing her forward between his spread knees until he’s hiding his face against her stomach, breathing hard against the fabric of her pajama shirt. The blanket falls away from around his shoulders, pooling against the cushions of the windowseat. Betty’s mouth dries up. She threads both her hands into his hair. 

“Okay.” Betty bends a bit, and rests her nose to the top of his head. Jughead’s breathing goes ragged. His fingers curl into talons in the fabric of her shirt. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” 

It takes him a while. Betty stands there, the dim yellow light from her bedside table casting odd shadows against the wall. Jughead’s hair is soft, even if it’s damp and a bit dirty; as she threads her hands through it, it catches, little knots unwinding against her fingers. The tension in the tendons at the back of his neck eases, slowly, the longer she does it; the weight of his head grows heavier against her stomach. After about ten minutes, she feels Razz’s tiny hedgehog toes against the top of her bare feet. Whatever Razz says, Jughead shudders a little. Then he takes a deep breath, and slowly sits up again. Betty lets her hands fall from his hair to his shoulders. She doesn’t want to let him go. Not right now. 

“Sorry.” His voice is a rasp. He won’t look her in the eye. “I’m—it didn’t go well. With my dad.” 

“I figured.” Betty wets her lips. “You want to talk about it?”

He’s quiet for so long Betty thinks he might be pretending he didn’t hear her. Then he coughs, swipes his hand across his nose and mouth, wiping away snot and tears. Jughead clears his throat. “My dad, uh. He—he talked to your mom.”

“What?” That explains why Alice had been so smug, but— “Jug—” 

“She called him up. Apparently. But—” He coughs again. “Just—I told you he wants me to drop out. We fought about—that. And—and about you. About my mom. And Jellybean.”

Betty wets her lips. He’s not mentioned Jellybean in weeks, not since they were on the bleachers outside of school, and he’d been telling her about the Circle. She doesn’t remember Jughead’s little sister very well. Six years younger and spunky, but independent. A gap between her two front teeth. She feels like she’ll shatter something if she moves too abruptly, if she breathes too loud. So she doesn’t speak. She lifts one hand, slowly, and tucks her fingers back into his hair, and Jughead leans forward to rest his head to her stomach again, staring at the floor. Razz goes on her hind legs and puts her little feet against the wall, looking up at Jug with her nose twitching. 

“They left,” he says. It’s almost a whisper. “They left a year ago. They’re in Toledo. It's—it's part of why I—left.” 

_Oh_. Betty’s throat closes up. She sweeps her thumb back and forth through his hair. “Jug.” 

“I want him to be better,” he says. “I don’t know how to make him be better. Betty—”

Her control breaks. Betty drops down onto the windowseat beside him, pulling him into a hug that has his face buried in her neck and his arms locked around her, too tight, hands shaking. He doesn’t struggle. Jughead lets out a ragged sound, and then drags her as close to him as he can manage, until their hips and thighs are bumping together, until the line of his nose coasts along her windpipe and she can brush her lips against the soft skin of his temple. She doesn’t dare to. She holds him, and wishes she could keep him in one piece, her best friend and a boy who is made up of so many shards of glass that it’s a wonder she hasn’t been cut. “I got you,” she says, thinking of the forest while the Twilight burned, how he went from being terrified of her discovery to holding her while she sobbed. _He’s always been here_ , she thinks. Whenever she’s needed him. She wants to be there for him, too. She wants to be for him what he’s been for her. “Jug, I got you, okay? I got you. It’s gonna be okay.” 

He shudders. His arms snake around her waist, and clutch her close. Betty holds him, until her hands ache, until her ribs throb with the force of it. She will not let go.

It takes about half an hour before Jughead starts to shiver—from cold, not from tears or emotion. Betty pushes him into the steam-flooded bathroom, feeling only just a _little_ bad about how much water she’s wasted, and then shuts the door behind him, taking his sherpa jacket and his hat from off the back of her desk chair and hanging them on her closet door so they can dry properly. Her eyes are red, from the glimpses she gets of herself in the mirror. Her lower lip hurts. She’s bitten it, hard enough to bleed, and when she sits down on the end of the bed again, folding the blanket she’d settled around Jughead and putting it on her lap, there’s a vague tug against the bottom of her pajama pants. Razz is scrabbling both feet against her ankle, trying desperately to dig her little paws into the fabric of Betty’s pants. Betty bends, and scoops Razz up, giving in to the impulse of resting the hedgehog to her shoulder instead of her lap. She takes a breath. 

**_She says thank you_ ** , Ell says after a long, quiet moment. Then, when Razz sneezes on her cheek, he adds, **_She says she’s glad Jughead told you the truth._ **

Betty hiccups. She wishes, for a second, that Razz was big enough to hug, like Ell. “Thank you, Razz.” 

Razz sniffles at her cheek, and begins to lick at the tear tracks. 

She’s not quite sure how much time passes by the time Jughead turns off the shower. She has enough of his clothes stowed at the back of her closet by now that she’d sent him in there with fresh ones, and he seems—not better, exactly, but calmer, when he comes out of her bathroom. His hair is sticking up at the back where he rubbed it dry with the towel, and his feet are bare where they peep out from under the hems of his too-long pajama pants. He blinks at her, slowly, with sore-looking eyes when he sees her sitting up. “You didn’t have to wait for me.”

“I wanted to,” Betty says. The corner of his mouth crooks up. “What?”

“Nothing.” His eyes crinkle. “You look like you’re waiting for me to fall over.”

“I’m not allowed to worry?”

“I’m—that’s not what I meant.” He chews his cheek. “I’m—I’m okay. I promise.” 

He’s not. But she doesn’t chase that, not right now.

"What did you find out?" he says.

Betty blinks. "What?"

"You said you found out something about Polly."

"Oh." She doesn't want to bring that into the room right now. She doesn't want to remind him of hunters. "It's—fine. We can talk about it in the morning. I'm supposed to meet Toni in Sunnyside by noon, so—I don't know. I was—kind of hoping you might want to come with me. I want to ask her about—well, about the Circle." 

“I’ll probably bring homework, but—sure.” He opens her closet. “Why ask Toni?”

“I don't know. I don't know Joaquin, and—Toni taught you.” She folds her legs up underneath her, and watches as he shuffles through the bags in her closet, aims for the sleeping bag. Betty wets her lips. “You—you could just sleep on the bed. If you want.”

Jughead freezes with his back to her, his hand held high towards the upper shelves, as if he’s waiting for someone to call on him in class. He doesn’t turn around, not for a long moment. “...you sure?”

“Jug.” She pushes herself to the headboard, and tucks her legs back beneath the blankets. “It’s fine. It’s—it’s a big bed, anyway. And it seems silly hiding the sleeping bags from my mom all the time.” She’s babbling, and she _knows_ he can tell; he’s not looking at her, careful to keep his face away, and maybe she’s disgusted him, maybe—this is _stupid_ , she’d just blurted it out cause it’s almost two in the morning and she’s still worried about him, and she doesn’t want to have to watch him sleep on the floor like he doesn’t have a home when he had a fight with his father about her, about the Circle, about—about a lot. “You don’t have to, it’s—” 

“I,” he says, and he sounds—hesitant. He still doesn’t look at her. “Only if you’re sure.”

Her heart jumps up into her throat, and throbs. She swallows it back down. “I’m sure.” 

Slowly, Jughead shuts the door to her closet. 

It takes a moment for them all to shuffle around, for Jughead to pull the curtains on the window that looks into Archie's bedroom and hide this away from the world. Ell, despite only being allowed to sleep on her bed for a few weeks, has a tendency to spread out, and when Betty tucks herself back under her blankets, Jughead circles around on the far side of her bed. He pauses, right beside the bed, like he’s waiting for her to take it back. When he shifts the blankets back, slips onto the mattress, it dips under his weight. Betty holds her breath, and turns her bedside lamp out, settling onto the pillow with both hands tucked under her cheek. She’s facing him, as he pulls the blankets up to his chest. She can’t help it. She’s never had a boy in her bed before. 

“Okay?” she says, in a whisper. Jughead turns his head to look at her. Moonlight spills between them like mercury, lighting his face up in shadow. 

“Yeah.” 

She reaches out, and touches his hand where it’s resting on his stomach. Betty draws back just as fast. “Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight,” Jughead says. It’s almost too soft to make out. 

Betty rolls over instead of letting herself notice, putting her back to him and pulling her blankets up to her shoulders. 

It takes a very long time for her to fall asleep. 


	32. Interlude: Joaquin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joaquin must act as Witness to an intriguing visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for violence / removal of fingernails, mentions of racism, lots of political plotting, alcoholism, drug use (does smoking weed count anymore as drug use???), and the whole Joaquin Deceives Kevin Into A Relationship thing. 
> 
> Check down at the bottom for a surprise! (Again, I didn't make it; it was a gift from my lovely beta.)

The call for the Circle Meeting goes out at the witching hour, and it’s Joaquin’s turn to act as Witness. 

In a normal year, there would be twelve meetings, which would mean twelve witnesses to ensure that the Accord was properly followed, the Circle concluded its business on time, and the next meeting had been scheduled for whatever moon phase would be most beneficial. Deciding  _ that  _ part was the duty of the old school pagans, the animists, who worship the sun and moon and stars in all their incarnations, the Sweetwater and the Forest, every element of the earth. But the animists have been steadfastly refusing to forecast the date of the next Circle Meeting for eighty-four months, which means that the Circle rarely meets at all. Joaquin isn’t a pagan—he’s a Satanist through his mother and a Santería creyente through his father, the only one in the younger generation of Serpents since Morty Spellman was murdered—but he has the sense that the animist pagans are just being stubborn about it at this point. They  _ could  _ predict the next most optimum day for a meeting, but they’re  _ not _ , and they’re only doing it because they don’t like the Serpent King. 

That, or Penny probably has them on her payroll, he thinks. Penny has most of the pagans on her payroll. 

In any case, it’s been seven years since the last Circle Meeting, and he’s fairly certain this one was called without consulting anyone at all. It only has the Serpent King’s marker on the message—one which was deposited into his text inbox, though it was never texted, and the message will disappear as soon as he’s read and acknowledged his duties as Witness—and he’s  _ absolutely certain _ that Penny and Tall Boy will be walking in ready to fight. The Serpent King has the power to call Circle Meetings whenever he wants, but the traditions of the Circle push him to meet privately with each political sect  _ in  _ the Circle and make them aware of it before calling the meeting officially. Considering FP has been drunk in the Whyte Wyrm half the night and Joaquin himself was the one to carry him back to his trailer to pass out on his couch bed, Joaquin doubts that FP bothered to follow tradition. 

Still: the meeting’s scheduled for ten tomorrow, and he’s been selected as Witness. He sweeps his thumb over the screen of his phone in acknowledgment. It fades from the screen, back to his crappy game of WordFight with Toni. She’s got eighty points on him and all he has are vowels. 

**_We have to meet Lavender at noon out at the garage_ ** . Perdita slides further down his arm, and sighs. She’s been pissy this whole past week. She’s in shed—she wants to change her patterns again—and being constantly itchy makes her a bitch to talk to sometimes.  **_How long do you think the meeting will go?_ **

“How long do they usually go?” It’s a hypothetical question. Circle Meetings can last anywhere from an hour to a week, and the Witness is supposed to observe at all times. Joaquin stubs out his cigarette on the wall of FP’s trailer. Originally he’d been chill with hanging out in the plastic chairs in front of FP’s trailer until FP decided to roll out to the Whyte Wyrm like he usually did at four in the morning—it’s snowing, but it’s the kind of snow that falls without chilling you to the bone, fat, fluffy flakes that coat his hair and jacket—but if FP’s awake and sober enough to send out the message, then FP’s awake and sober enough for a report. “If there’s a meeting, Lavender and Thomas will come in. They’ll get it.” 

Or Thomas will get it. Lavender’s the one he doesn’t want to be on the wrong side of. He’s seen that woman work magics that he used to think weren’t possible. 

**_Why’s it your turn to be Witness?_ ** Perdita’s voice goes whiny at the end, her forked tongue slipping out to tickle at his wrist. She’s been hiding in his sleeve all morning, trying to rub dead skin off using his clothes. It hasn’t been working all that well, and he keeps having python skin shards fall out of his cuff.  **_Weren’t you Witness last time?_ **

“Probably why.” It’s been seven years. None of the other younger witches had been tapped to be Witness but him, before the meetings stopped. Now he’s probably the only one who still remembers most of what he has to do. “It’s not supposed to be back-to-back, but it’s been seven years. Not like I have to build up magical stores in preparation.”

**_Still doesn’t seem fair._ **

“Life isn’t fair, Perd, I thought you knew that by now.” Joaquin wipes his hands on his jeans, and then knocks on FP’s trailer door. “Boss, it’s me.”

“What do you want?” FP sounds muffled, like he’s talking through a pillow. He probably is. Joaquin had walked him back to his trailer only a few hours ago, and FP had immediately passed out. “It’s fuckin’ three in the fuckin’ morning.” 

“Report.” Joaquin shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, and Perdita whines at him from inside his sleeve. He must have squashed her nose. “You wanted it ASAP once I got back.” 

There’s a bang. Then, after a moment, the door lock clicks. FP looks like shit. When he opens the door, weed smoke rolls out the door into the night as if a dragon’s exhaled, and Joaquin doesn’t breathe for a moment. He’s allergic to weed. Always has been. “What?”

So FP’s in  _ that  _ mood. The verge-of-a-brawl, pity-party mood. “Got the message.” He lifts his phone a little. FP’s eyes are red and the place reeks of beer under the weed, but he’s not holding a drink in his hand, for once. “Figured you should hear my report before the Meeting, not after.” 

FP stares at his face. He looks, Joaquin thinks, like he’s seeing somebody else. Then he claps his hand to Joaquin’s shoulder, and says, “Wyrm. Twenty minutes.”

“Got it.”

FP shuts the door. Joaquin turns his collar up against the snow and starts the slow slog east. 

At three AM on a Friday night— **_Saturday morning_ ** , Perdie corrects him, snottily,  **_it’s Saturday morning —_ ** the Whyte Wyrm is packed. Half the folks in here are mortal, though, and it means he’s keeping Perdita in his coat, though he supposes it wouldn’t be too much of a surprise for mortals around here to see a South Side Serpent walking through the Whyte Wyrm with a ball python around his neck. Perdie’s halfway through her makeover, though. She won’t appreciate him showing off the fact that she’s changing from a Mojave morph to a Purple Passion. It’s not something mundane snakes can do, and he’s pretty sure that the mortal regulars at the Wyrm are under the impression that he has a new snake every two weeks, instead of one particularly vain familiar. 

**_I’ll bite you_ ** , says Perdie. 

“I didn’t say anything,” says Joaquin under his breath, and drops down on a stool at the edge of the bar. 

**_I can tell when you’re thinking about me, Joaquin._ ** Her tongue flickers out, and brushes against his wrist.  **_I’ve known you almost fifty years, I know when you’re thinking rude thoughts._ **

“Who says I was being rude?”

**_Your face._ **

“That’s mature.”

“Hey.” It’s Hog Eye. There’s a bit of yellow mustard on his scraggly beard that Joaquin’s sure he hasn’t noticed. “You made it back all right?”

“Minus a fingernail or two,” says Joaquin. He doesn’t bother to explain. He’d been out spying on Order members, it’s a miracle he hadn’t had to do more than carve up a few fingernails. And nails can be coaxed to grow again with magic. Lives can’t. “FP’s on his way.”

“Figured.” Hog Eye darts a glance at the far wall. Penny and Tall Boy are holding court in the corner, a handful of pagans—mostly animists, he’s pretty sure, though there’s one or two Rodnovery practitioners, a few women of the Sacred Divine, and a gaggle of Druidics—are all listening with rapt attention. The Santa Muerte worshippers are bracketed off in another corner, steadfastly ignoring the proceedings, which makes him smile into his shot when Hog Eye sets it down in front of him. La Huesuda isn’t particularly well represented in the Circle of the Snake—there aren’t many Latinx folks in Riverdale—but the ones who  _ are  _ here don’t put up with Penny and Tall Boy’s shit. Neither do the Semitic neopagans, the Santería creyentes, the  _ brujxs _ , the Wu shamans or the vodou workers, though there are only a handful of those, too.  _ Riverdale so white, _ Toni’d said once,  _ that it’d lose track of itself in a snowfall.  _ “She’s been there all night, giving her sermons.”

“You’d think she’s Ted Haggard,” says Joaquin, and Hog Eye snorts. “Get the text?”

“Yeah.” Hog Eye eyes Joaquin’s empty shot glass, and then cups his hand over it. When he retracts his palm, there’s fresh tequila in the shot. “I’m kicking out all but the inner circle at quarter to six. When’s it supposed to start?” 

“About ten, I think.” He takes the shot. His throat burns. Joaquin stands. “Can I get through to the back?”

“Why?”

“I’m serving as Witness,” says Joaquin. “Want to get as much sleep as I can before the meeting so Toni can’t make me take her damn brews. The last time she dosed me I was up for a week straight.” 

Hog Eye grunts. “Girl’s a Topaz through her daddy and a Chavannes through her mama. Should’ve known better than to drink it all at once.”

“You try saving some for later when she’s standing there staring at you and waiting for you to finish.”

Hog Eye’s never laughed to Joaquin’s knowledge. Still, he’s most definitely smirking when he wanders off to the other side of the bar. Perdie twists her tail in his sleeve.  **_Toni isn’t that bad._ **

Joaquin ignores that. He darts another look at Penny and Tall Boy, and then hunches over his phone where he’s put it on the bartop, sweeping through his texts until he finds the one he wants. 

K:  _ hey when you get a chance let me know you’re not dead so i can punch you for being such a dick _

Joaquin lets out a breath. For the first time all day, Perdita pokes her nose out from his sleeve.  **_You shouldn’t have made him wait this long._ **

“It’s not like he really knows anything. And I kind of had other things on my mind.” Like witch hunters. And angels. “It’s not like I’m ghosting him on purpose.”

**_Still. He’s mortal. He’ll take it personally._ **

It’s been a while since Joaquin has had to deal with any mortal as young as Kevin Keller. Not that he’s  _ old  _ by witch standards; he’s almost exactly sixty years old, and witches can live for millennia if they’re not caught and killed, or they don’t get snared by demons. If you were to graph out his age, comparatively to a mortal lifespan, he and Kevin would probably be separated only by a year or two. Still, it’s been a while since he’s had to think about how teenage mortals act. Like the world is centered around them, and their emotions and pain are the predominant drive of everything that everyone around them is focused on. He chews the inside of his cheek, and lights another cigarette. 

He’s still not sure where he stands with the Sheriff’s son. Hooking up is different than what he’s aiming for—information—and what Kevin is aiming for—a boyfriend. He’s pretty sure, anyway. He breathes smoke, and exhales it again. Down at the other end of the bar, Byrdie lifts a glass in a salute. He nods in response, and absently rubs the top of Perdita’s head with one thumb, scraping a bit of her dead skin off with the stub of his thumbnail. 

**_He won’t be awake,_ ** Perdie says. Her nose is violet already.  **_I still think you should just spell him into telling you what he knows._ **

“Like that’s easy to do.” Mortals might not be aware of magic, but anyone with half a brain is going to notice if they get spelled. He’s heard about the truth potion from the Blossom memorial. He’s sure Grundy knew  _ something  _ was going on. The last thing he needs is for Kevin to go to his father and mention that he couldn’t keep himself from talking. The Sheriff will know what that means in a second, no matter if Kevin’s kept his fling with a Serpent from his dad so far. “This is easier.”

**_Slower, you mean_ ** .

“Don’t be a bitch, Perd.” He taps ash onto the floor, and then swipes out  _ sorry, had to leave town for a couple days and couldn’t take my phone. Didn’t mean to ditch. _ He hits enter, and looks at the screen for a moment or two before throwing his phone back into his pocket and putting it on silent. He doesn’t need to stare at the thing like some Disney princess. 

He can feel it when FP comes into the Wyrm, not just from the sudden silence that falls over Penny and Tall Boy’s corner, but the sense of  _ knowing _ that comes with being a member of the Circle, tattooed and initiated. The Serpent inked into his hip rustles as if it’s coming alive when the door to the bar opens, and FP slips inside. He can see every witch in the Wyrm come to attention, too, either through raised heads or sudden pauses, the weight of a mug pressed to their lips without taking a sip. FP might be complicated, Joaquin thinks, and half the Circle might despise him, but nobody fights the knowledge that he’d been elected Serpent King, and the magic of that still lingers. FP claps Joaquin hard on the shoulder, hard enough to get Joaquin to wince, and takes the stool beside him. 

“Boss,” says Hog Eye, and then goes to get FP’s beer. Perdita slips up Joaquin’s sleeve without another word. 

“Thanks for waiting.” FP sweeps a hand under his nose. His eyes are still red and he still stinks of weed, but his hair is combed, he’s got a fresh shirt on, and his Serpent’s jacket is settled on his shoulders. Joaquin wonders where his familiar hides. It must be small, he thinks, to always be so out of sight. “Glad to see you in one piece.”

“Mostly,” His middle, ring, and pinky finger on his right hand are bandaged up to keep the nail beds clean until he can get the time and space to spell them into growing again. Other than that, though, he’s just sore from spending too much time in a tree, and tired from sleepless nights. “Not much to report.”

“Didn’t see anyone?”

“Nobody I recognized.” He’d taken candid shots of all the people coming in and out of the Sisters of Quiet Mercy in case they turned out to be Hunters, but somehow he doubts it. Hunters aren’t stupid, and setting up shop in a foster home is probably one of the best choices they could have made. So many people were coming in and out every day it’d be impossible to follow up on everyone. “One of their angels spotted me on the fourth day. Why it took me so long to get back.”

“The woman?”

“No.” Joaquin’s seen the woman that the Sheriff’s been parading around as an arson investigator. He doesn’t know  _ which  _ angel she is, but she stinks of angelic power. The angels he’d seen in the Sisters of Quiet Mercy weren’t her. “A man. Young. White, blonde. Probably a few inches taller than me. In nice clothes, slacks, like a Mormon on mission. He had a name tag, but it was too far away for me to see.” 

“Did he see you?” 

“He chased me for almost three miles on foot.” It’s why he’d had to tug his own nails out. It’s a trick his mother taught him. A sacrifice of blood and flesh to the Dark Lord, for disguise, for concealment, for speed. He hasn’t ever had to use three nails at once, but he’s also never been personally chased by an angel in a hunter’s skin. “I won’t be able to go back for a while.” 

FP looks at him for a moment, and then clasps his shoulder again. “Good man,” he says. “When’d you last sleep?”

_When did you?_ Joaquin almost asks, because the bags under FP’s eyes are the size of boulders. He keeps that between his teeth. “Few days.”

“Go,” says FP. “Hog Eye will open up the back for you.”

He keeps the  _ I already asked _ between his teeth, too. FP’s trying to make up for being a dick at the door. And probably for making Joaquin drag him back to his trailer, and for leaving a sober-up tablet beside the bed. Joaquin isn’t so much of an asshole that he won’t take the olive branch when it’s offered. “Thanks.” 

The back room is empty, but it’s warm. The heater’s on, seems like it has been for hours. The Uktena Nation flag, with the river and the serpents, is fluttering just a little in the air current from the heating system. Joaquin shucks his jacket, and rolls his neck. Someone’s dragged a fold-out camping cot in here, and he has a sneaking suspicion it was Hog Eye. It smells of cigarettes, but at least it’s a flat surface, and when he sits on one end, Perdita slides free of his sleeve to investigate the scents. 

**_Toni,_ ** she says after a moment. Her forked tongue flickers out into the air.  **_And Lavender._ **

That makes more sense. Joaquin shifts his familiar out of the way, and lays down on one side. Hog Eye will wake him before the meeting starts. 

**_Hey._ ** Perdita touches the end of her blunt nose to his neck, and then progresses, resting her weight to his throat and collar.  **_It’ll be okay. We got away. They won’t find us here._ **

He hadn’t been thinking about that. Still, hearing it makes him let out a heavy breath. “I don’t like how many people were staying there.” Too many mortals. Too many potential recruits for hunters to prey on. A foster home for teenagers with family problems or no families at all, addictions, histories of abuse? It’s like a breeding ground for new initiates. “I don’t like how many angels were coming in and out of the place.”

**_Me neither._** Perdita settles across his throat, and Joaquin scoffs and shifts her just enough that the weight of her settles on his chest instead. **_We don’t go back, Joaquin. Not for a long time. FP can have someone else spy for him._**

“I don’t know if he can.”

**_That’s not fair. There are loads of witches who could do this for him._ **

“I don’t think he trusts anyone else to do it.” There are too many political motives in the Circle right now. There are too many people who might give the information to someone else, to Penny, to Tall Boy. To someone else who was not on the side of the Serpent King. “It has to be me.”

**_No, it doesn’t_ ** , Perdita snaps.  **_It doesn’t have to be you._ **

He means to respond to her, he does. But laying down before talking to her had been a mistake. He’s asleep before he can string a sentence together.

There are no windows in the inner office. It’s Perdita who wakes him, dragging her whole body across his face until he squints and drags his eyes open again.  **_It’s almost time_ ** , Perdita says, and he draws himself up, rubbing his hands over his face. Someone has been in and out of the back without waking him; there’s a bottle of water on the table where Lavender usually leaves her things, and a post-it that reads  _ brush your fucking hair —T _ . 

**_She brought Marlon in to say hi_ ** , says Perdita, coiling up into a ball.  **_But you didn’t wake up._ **

Perdita and Toni’s familiar, Marlon, have been friends for decades. Of course Toni would bring Marlon in for a Circle Meeting. “Sorry.” 

**_You needed sleep,_ ** Perdie says, in a rare benevolent mood. She’s peeled more of her shed off while he slept, and is almost completely pale lavender now.  _ Highly  _ pleased with herself, judging by how she’s coiled.  **_It’s almost time_ ** .

“Is everyone here?”

**_How do I know? I’ve been in here with you._ **

True. Stupid question. He puts his hand down and lets her coil around his wrist, settles her to his neck like a heavy chain. He pulls his jacket on, downs the water, and pours just a bit of the dregs into his hand to rub it over his face to get any scrap of Perdie shed off his skin, slick his hair back out of his eyes. He’s the Witness, he thinks, and flexes his hand with missing fingernails. The beds ache and sting. “You ready?”

**_Do I have to be seen?_ ** She frets.  **_My shed isn’t done yet._ **

“Nobody cares, Perd.”

**_I care._ **

He sighs. That’s enough of an answer, he thinks. 

The Wyrm should be empty, this time of day. It’s open all night—three in the afternoon to six in the morning—and usually ten am means the place is empty, except maybe for Toni or Hog Eye supervising alcohol deliveries, or FP or Tall Boy letting some of the weed dealers into the basement so they can pick up more product. There must be spells erected outside, he thinks, to make it look as if the place is empty, the windows dark and hollow. Instead, it’s packed. Penny and Tall Boy are here, with all their pagans at their back. The pagans of color, the  _ brujxs  _ and vodou practitioners, Santa Muerte worshipers and Santería creyentes, Wu shamanists and Semitic neopagans and all those who aren’t steadfastly loyal to FP but also aren’t Penny and Tall Boy’s stooges, have settled by the terrarium where the banana morph python, Ana, is sleeping after a big feed. Sweet Pea, one of the Wu shamanists, is tapping gently at the glass with one forefinger. He nods when he sees Joaquin. Satanists are gathered by the door. There aren’t many, now, beyond him and a few people around FP’s age, in their early to middle second centuries. There are even a few magists, who usually don't come out of the woodwork for anything less than the apocalypse. IT helps that there are only two or three magists in the Circle at all, including FP himself. Thomas Topaz is sitting at the bar, and Lavender Stirwell beside him, Toni on his other side. Her porcupine familiar is pacing back and forth on the bartop, dragging his long, spiky tail behind him. There are more Uktena witches here than usual, he realizes. Typically Uktena witches are represented by Thomas and Lavender, who bring the concerns of the Indigenous community to the meeting after holding their own, outside of Riverdale. Then again, FP’s flouted the tradition of letting each faction hold their own meetings prior to a full Circle Meeting. No wonder the place is packed. There must be at least seventy people in this bar, and all of them are witches. Some of them, the ones with familiars that are small enough to be carried or who can follow on their own feet, have their familiars with them, goblins and spirits mingling together. Sweet Pea’s moose must be waiting outside somewhere. So must Thomas’s cougar. Lavender’s raven is sitting on her shoulder, carding his long beak through her greying hair. 

When Joaquin shuts the door behind him, Toni turns around and says, “About time.”

“Thanks for the water.” Perdita, around his throat, coils tighter. “How bad is it?”

“Well, it’s not a bucket of roses.” Still, she reaches up, curling her hand around the back of his head and leaning forward to tap their foreheads together. It’s something they’ve done since they were barely ten, and Joaquin shuts his eyes and rocks forward into it, reaching up to dig his fingers into the hair at the back of her head. She smells like the soap Lavender makes, like rosemary and olive oil. Marlon the porcupine sniffs at his sleeve as he leans against the bar. “You look like shit.” 

“Fuck off.” He pulls back from her. “Where’ve you been?”

“Out.” She arches an eyebrow. “You’re not the only one with shit to do, de Santos.” 

“Good to see you alive, boy,” says Thomas. He dips his chin in towards his chest. “You up for Witnessing? I heard you just got back last night.”

“I’m fine.” He’d have to be fine. It’s not like someone else can take on the job, now. “Where’s FP?”

Thomas points. FP’s standing by the door, talking in a low voice with Gregory Fallschurch, the head of the Satanist faction now that Gladys Jones has left the Circle behind. Gregory’s small and thin, a black man with blue eyes and hands that are more suited to art than rough work. He works for Fred Andrews, Joaquin’s pretty sure. It’s hard to keep track of the different jobs and faces people wear, sometimes. Every member of the Circle has to retreat every few decades just to keep mortals and hunters from recognizing them. Gregory’s newly back in Riverdale, and Joaquin gets the sense that the discord in the Circle of the Snake unsettles him. Joaquin checks his phone—there’s another text from Kevin he’s not up for reading yet—and then slips out from behind the bar, absently stroking two fingers over Perdita’s head. 

FP shuts up as soon as Joaquin gets close. “There you are,” says FP, and walks away from Gregory without a goodbye. “We have the book set up.”

“What’s this even about?”

“You’ll see.” FP grips Joaquin’s shoulder again, careful not to touch Perdie. “Ready?”

He can’t exactly say no. “Yeah.” 

“Right.” FP claps him on the shoulder again, hard. “Sit.”

Meetings always go like this. There is a table set up in the center of whatever room they meet in. In the center of the table, there is a book, the Witness book, where whoever is tapped to Witness the meeting cuts and writes in blood. It ensures truth, and the spells on the book keep the Witness writing until the Meeting is complete, however long it takes. There’s already a knife on the table, a thin and wicked butterfly knife with an Uktena serpent painted on the split handle. A chipped porcelain bowl, one that’s large enough to fit a whole roast chicken inside. A bleeding bowl, he thinks. One that some witch from the 1700s has kept safe this whole time, just to use for this. A pen is settled at the edge of the bowl, empty and waiting. Joaquin sits, and Perdita coils closer around his neck. 

**_Ready?_ ** She says. 

He doesn’t respond. He can feel Penny Peabody’s eyes fixed on him. Joaquin picks up the butterfly knife in his left hand. 

“I witness,” he says, and slits his palm open to spill blood into the bowl. 

It’s instant, the Witnessing. Once his blood hits the bowl, the Serpent tattoo on his hip begins to  _ writhe. _ It’s an odd feeling, like something living is trapped beneath his flesh. Perdie hums deep into his ear. He takes up the pen. His hand moves without his control. All he can do is watch as blood dribbles down his hand, onto the nib of the pen, drawn there without hesitation by the magic, the power. He has to write everything, now. Every word that comes out of someone's mouth. Every person who is present in the room. It's a way to keep people from lying, or falsifying a Circle decision. It's hell for the person who has to act as Witness to do it. 

“I have called a meeting,” says FP, standing beside him. “I know that it’s unorthodox—”

The door to the Whyte Wyrm bangs open.

Joaquin can’t jump. He can’t leave the chair, not like everyone else can; he is stuck as Witness, and all he can do is sit in his chair and watch and record. A woman stands in the doorway, a slim woman standing about 5’7” or 5’8” with her heels, a black veil over her face that she lifts and pins away with one hand. Her sunglasses have cats-eye points. A witch, he thinks. Only a witch would be able to push through the boundaries into the meeting. But not a Circle witch. She doesn’t have a face he knows, and when he continues to write, describing, the Witness spell does not have a name for her. She’s not initiated into the Circle. Which means she’s from somewhere else. 

“Ah.” The woman takes her sunglasses off. She has brilliant red-blonde hair, and her lips—scarlet—curve into a smile that Joaquin can’t read. “I see someone forgot to relay the message.” 

Penny stands from her stool. Her goldfinch familiar is perched on her shoulder. “Outsiders aren’t welcome here,  _ Satanist _ .”

“Oh, please.” The woman—Church witch—gives Penny a cutting look. “I’m not here to crash your little hobnob. I have business with the Serpent King that I must discuss in private.” 

The Meeting has begun. Joaquin can’t stop the transcription, the slow roll of his memory down onto paper, amplified by magic. He watches, and cannot look away. 

“Since when do you speak with Church witches, FP?” says Penny. Her lips are curling up, and flickering down again, as if she’s trying to hide her smile. “Didn’t know you had such close ties with the Satanists across the river.”

“What business do you have with me?” FP stands, and the woman gives him a top-to-toe evaluatory look that clearly FP does not pass. Joaquin’s throat closes, though whether it’s from the hiss of anger that circles the room or because of his own defensiveness, he’s not sure. “Our business is done, Spellman. Been over for almost twenty years.”

“Not quite.” The woman— _ Spellman; she must be one of the Spellman sisters— _ peels off her gloves, and tucks them away into her coat pocket. “Your son brought my cousin’s daughter back home last night. Not that I owe you any thanks for it, considering how long she was left alone. Is that how you treat half-mortal witches on this side of the river, Serpent King? Leave them to fend for themselves? Or were you hoping the Hunters would track her down first?”

There’s a rustle, a stirring. Those who are loyal to FP hiss. Sweet Pea’s knife is out, and he looks ready to lunge. Behind the bar, beside Hog Eye, Toni crosses her arms close over her chest. Her porcupine familiar, Marlon, bares his teeth where he’s settled on the bartop. Penny’s eyes dart between the Spellman witch and FP. So do Tall Boy’s. Finally, Thomas sighs. “What do you want, Zelda?”

Zelda Spellman casts a casual look at the banana morph python kept in the glass terrarium in the center of the bar. She purses her lips. Then she says, “I want a guarantee of my niece’s safety on this side of the river. She’s a Spellman, but she was born here. This is her home. I want a guarantee that once she joins the Church of Night, she will be left unmolested.” 

Toni, for some reason, makes a disgusted noise. “No guarantee she'll join the Church,” Toni says, and Zelda snaps a look at her this time, arching one eyebrow in a curious quirk. “You think that anyone who had a choice would pick your Church over the Circle?”

“All the same.” Zelda does not smile. “I want the guarantee. In blood. You Snakes got my cousin killed. I think you owe me and my family the guaranteed safety of his daughter until she undergoes her Baptism.”

“Or her initiation,” says Sweet Pea. He does not flinch when Zelda turns on him, though Joaquin sees him tighten his grip on his knife. “Her choice.”

Zelda scoffs, but doesn’t argue. 

“Can someone explain what the fuck is going on?” That’s Tall Boy. He stands, and his chair screeches across the floor, his muskrat familiar darting away back into safe territory beneath the bar. “FP?”

FP waves a hand. “How did you even get here?” he says, to Zelda Spellman. “The barrier—”

“—is a joke,” Penny says, and there’s a handful of voices and murmurs and nods that Joaquin can’t quite catch, even as Witness. “It’s a miracle we’re not flooded with Church Satanists—”

“The Blossoms need to answer for what they’ve brought on us—”

“Fuck the Blossoms, what’s this about a half-witch—”

“Why weren’t we kept informed—”

“—blood pact with a Satanist, over my dead body—” 

The voices fade into a fog. He’s still writing, his hand moving back and forth across the page, ink slipping and sliding between his fingers, but Joaquin is transfixed. He looks at FP, who is staring at Zelda Spellman, and at Zelda Spellman, who is staring back without blinking. The voices fade into a fog, and then into a mist, and then FP rubs the back of his head and swears under his breath, something not even the Witness spell can catch. 

“Fine,” says FP. “Let’s deal.”


End file.
